


Inked

by orchids_bloom



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: (I repeat, A couple in its making, Arts, Bonding, Concerts, Confessions, Confirmed and thoroughly researched gaelic curse words, Descriptive Sexual Acts, Disturbing Memories, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Experimental writing, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gentleman, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Hybrid Character, I just want you to imagine Tom with tats and beards and floof and grr, I make everything up lol, If It Triggers You Don't Read, Inappropriate Erections, Intellectual teasing, Intimacy, Literature, Loki/Tom Hybrid Personality, London pubs, Love at First Sight, Masturbation, Nudity, One Night Stand, Original Characters - Freeform, POV Experimental, Past Abuse, Poetry, Scottish Gaelic Curse Words, Sensitive Men, Sexual Content, Shared past abuse, Singing, Slightly depressing, Small Chapters in this one, Soulmates, Swear Words, Talk of Consent, Talk of boundaries, Tattoo shops, Therapist sessions, Tom Hiddleston AU, alcohol consumption, alternating first person POV, asshole supervisor, beauty and elegance, but he doesn't understand it at first, but let us just wait it out a bit, cause that needs its own warning, darling names, eventually there will be a shitload of smut, inappropriate thoughts, little swallow, of the exceptionally filthy kind, seriously my tags dont even exist, sexual awakening, sexy lunch times, tattoo artists, tattooing, the pleasure of being tattooed, this is not TH), tough work environment, traumatic memories, weird workings of fate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 09:05:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 100,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16115225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchids_bloom/pseuds/orchids_bloom
Summary: Sometimes it takes a while for a man to truly find his pair and sometimes it takes an eternity for a woman to remember her power and might. Sometimes it seems like the toughest thing in the world to help someone piece themselves back together and sometimes, it takes a lot for a deeply wounded soul to let someone in and allow them to see the scars that stretch across the heart.Tom and Arabella were perfect strangers at first until that first phone call that aligned their stars and put them both in the same walking path. Fate gave them nothing but the memories of a belt and erogenous instincts to help them find their way towards each other. And yet, it seemed that these two were enough to forge one of the greatest loves either of them had ever felt.





	1. Appointment With An Artist

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! You did not see that coming, did you? Eheheh! I am laughing hysterically to myself cause I know I must have surprised you greatly and I am drawing satisfaction from it. Great satisfaction! Ehehe. So, this is a new experimental work as I have mentioned in the tags and honestly, one that is, perhaps going to be updated once a month and unfortunately the chapters are going to be rather short. Well, not unfortunately, because I find that small chapters keep me grounded and less anxious. Now, now, before you delve into this new, strange, mysterious thing, let me mention a few things first about this piece of fiction.  
> 1\. This IS a piece of fiction so please, treat it as such. No events in it are based in real circumstances, except perhaps for its general theme which you will discover as the chapters go. It's a theme I was always greatly interested in and wanted to somehow engage in interpreting and understanding it and I have found no better way to do that than through writing and literature. I have read many true stories that have inspired me to write this as naturally and as close to the truth as I can and I certainly hope you see it that way as well.  
> 2\. As you might have already seen up in the mentioned characters session there are names that might be a little familiar to you. Such as Tom Huddleston, yet not HIddleston. Jeremy RIDER yet not Renner. Natasha RICHARDS yet not Romanov. This has happened because these are my own characters, except for maybe Tom, but yeah still. These characters might have the appearance of Tom Hiddleston, Jeremy Renner and Scarlet Johanson but they are not THEM, as personalities and entities. Tom has been completely created using Tom Hiddleston's virtues and qualities (which you may be sure I have only deduced from countless interviews and footage from premiers) and Loki's dominant nature (which he somewhat displays in the Marvel movies) and certainly the character looks like the man himself, Tom, but IS NOT, by any means, HIM. I want you to deeply understand that so that I'm not misunderstood. The same applies to Jeremy Renner and Scarlet Johanson and perhaps Chris Hemsworth, but I am not sure if I'll add him or not, still trying to decide. I have borrowed the faces but not their exclusive traits so please, keep that in mind.  
> 3\. This story is dark. Like, pitch black, if I must be honest. It's violent, it's brutal, it's real and scary and deeply disturbing, especially because of its theme and main core. If you are triggered in any way by what I am going to write then please don't read anymore, leave this place and never return if you so please. This is a very tender subject which I am attempting to put into words and express through a story, so please, also be kind as I try to unveil it. It might not be everyone's cup of tea but hey... I wanna write it!  
> 4\. The fact that I have started a second fic does not mean that Rhythm Of Our Bodies, Movement Of Our Souls will not continue. Of course, it will! Like we have discussed over to the other fic. So don't worry. You will not lose Andrea and Loki. It's just that I had these two characters, Tom and Arabella, in my head for a long time and I wanted to get them out of there. So here we are. A second fiction it is.  
> 5\. Pictures are borrowed from the web, as always, and therefore their rights belong to their respective owners. There are only two pics that show what my two main stars look like, how I imagine them to be. On one hand, you have scruffy 2018 Tom with his occasional glasses and all but just try to imagine him with some leather pants and jacket, plus neck, arms and back tattoos. As the chapters go I will provide you with specific pictures of his tats and where he has them so that you can form your own picture. Ohhh, just imagine those neck tattoes ascending his neck like vines, seriously I don't know what's wrong with me... On the other hand, you have Arabella. The face of Arabella belongs to a model called Alba Galocha and oh my God, she is gorgeous and I am obsessed with her whole tomboy essence. Check her out if you want. Quick reminder, the personality of Arabella and Alba are not the same. Thank you. So, there you have it! The new couple!
> 
> I can't promise you that you will always be having fun with this particular piece so I'll just say... go ahead and read. Comments, hits and kudos are most appreciated! Much love, hugs and kisses!

 

 

**Arabella**

 

_About five months ago..._

 

I screamed. I screamed my lungs out until I felt them rattle and shutter under the heaviness on my chest. I foolishly thought he would wake up from this thing that got him under its devious control more often than not. I screamed some more to shake him back into reality, but he couldn’t be helped. After a while, the screaming ceased being my way of escape and started becoming the only means to mentally survive. I thought, in this moment, when your body is not under your control then your mind should definitely keep its focus on one thing at least. One thing that is happening outside you. I was producing a piercing sound, that was. A sound that wasn’t drowned out by anything else, not his huffing, not his cursing and not his spitting. That kept me tethered to some sort of reality.

I screamed, but he didn’t hear me. I was the only one that heard me. I still hear me, mostly on lonely nights, when it rains. I’m not afraid anymore. I shut the fear out. Never the less, I keep hearing me. And surprisingly enough, it doesn’t even sound like me anymore. That part of me is gone. It got erased that night. It was wiped out from existence with the snapping sound of that devil in his hand. I still bring it to mind, that hissing sound. Whenever a girl at the office snaps a hair elastic against her wrist, out of boredom or inactivity, I see him standing by the door and I wince. But it is what it is and I am who I am.

Back to the past now. No point venturing to the near future. There is no future. Not for me at least. There is only dedication to my work. That is all that keeps the screaming away. Sometimes.

I screamed. I screamed my lungs out until my throat clogged and stopped releasing sound. Had I damaged my chords, I didn’t know. Had he been strangling me, I didn’t know. I was screaming to bring him back, but he was too far gone this time.

I cried then. Tears make men awkward. Tears confuse them and get them to stay away from you. Mum told me that a long time ago. But my tears didn’t deter him from his work. Stupid to think they would. They probably served as further encouragement.

That hissing sound again and snap. I screamed for him to stop.

Hiss and snap. I screamed for him to see reason.

Hiss and snap. I screamed to keep myself from falling apart.

Hiss and snap. I screamed to get angry.

Hiss and snap. I screamed to stay mad at him for those cursed sounds he forced out of me.

Hiss and snap. Funny old gig this one. The doctor said that this specific one would never heal. Not completely. Dr Barnes said the purple around it, the bruised part, would fade, but a pinkish undertone would stay. Turned out, he was right.

I screamed. I screamed my lungs out until a neighbour came barging in through our front door with the police following suit. So what happened? Had they been hearing me all this time but just stood aside waiting for the cops to arrive?

I stopped screaming. A police officer was dragging him away, hitting him in the ribs with something long, just as my eyes were falling shut.

He grunted in pain. How selfish of him, really. He cursed me with something unintelligible. Kind of him, if one was to consider what he had planned to do to me after the snapping. He told me, in his half-crazed state of mind. And I will never forget it.

I lost consciousness then and after that, bright white lights were assaulting my sensitive eyes. I squinted but hissed in pain. Apparently, my face was smashed, but thankfully there were no mirrors around me.

 _Am I in heaven?_ That was the first thing I thought before the memories hit me. Hiss and snap and suddenly, I was seeing him everywhere. As I said, I still see him, just not that often and not so vividly.

 

**. . .**

 

**Tom**

 

_London, 2018..._

 

Like every day, weekends included, I was sitting in that damn squeaky chair of mine, this time a tiger under my nose. For some reason, I felt unsettled that afternoon and couldn’t get the lines on her middle section right. I’d never used a ruler in my life to sketch, but as that London drizzle started to become louder and louder as it hit the ground, I thought I might as well reconsider for once.

“Jesus, how much coffee did you have this morning?”, one of my beloved employs asked.

“Five cups”, I confessed, pressing my lips together, as I erased the same fucking lines for the hundredth time. I had made the paper so thin from the rubber friction that soon I was going to have to change it and start anew.

“Well that explains it”, Jeremy declared, colouring in red an old-school rose.

“What can I say? Addictions are addictions”.

My other employ, Nat, laughed at that, screwing up the geometrical design of a deer and said light-heartedly, “Ever think of breaking the habit?”.

I scoffed, “Fuck no. Coffee is the next best thing after sex”.

“The fuck, it ain’t. Especially the way you drink it. Black with two spoons of sugar. So bitter. How can you stand it?”, Jeremy cut in.

“How can you stand drinking yours with chocolate sprinkles and milk?”, I interject calmly, abandoning the main body of the tiger to deal with the head. Its whiskers had to go out straight at the edges and that needed swiftness and careful calculation.

And yet, as the fates had probably decided from the beginning of this gloomy day, I was not bound to finish the sketch today for I was interrupted by the phone. The ringing made me flinch back abruptly, resulting in the poor whiskers ending up being curled downwards. I wasn’t sure a client would like a tiger tattooed on his body with its whiskers down.

“I’ll get it”, Nat proposed and got up from the roundtable we were all sitting at.

“If it’s a client, put him on speaker”, I told her, wishing internally that it wouldn’t be that engineer guy that wanted the tiger I kept failing to draw.

Natasha got behind the register and gingerly picked up the phone, pressing the right button that would instantly transmit the client’s voice all over the room. I went back to my design though, not really interested in what anyone had to say at 6:00 in the afternoon.

“ _JNT's_ here. What can we do for you?”.

“Hi, emh, I’ve called the tattoo studio on Margaret Street, right?”.

And yet, the voice that reached my ears gradually made me lower my pencil to the table surface, my lips parting slowly and my eyes rising up to where Natasha stood. To where that voice was coming from.

“That’s us, darling”.

“Okay, emh, I... I was interested in getting a tattoo and... and I was wondering who I had to talk to about it. About... the design, I guess”.

It was the most delicate and pure sound I’ve ever heard and that was my honest opinion, even though I knew how voices over the phone tended to get altered. Definitely not this one, though. How could it be so silent, I wondered, as if afraid.

“Well, there’s three of us in the studio and each does different techniques so, tell me what you got in mind and I’ll direct you accordingly”.

“Okay. I was thinking... I was thinking about getting a swallow”.

A swallow? Having graduated from a School of Arts here in London I knew of multiple meanings that could be linked to such tattoos. A swallow was no ordinary animal. Did any of the meanings I knew of applied to the woman on the phone or did she have figured out her own special message to attribute to it? Was she a sailor? A broken heart? She sounded like a broken heart. I didn’t know why I clung on to that notion though. One can say, I heard it in the unbearable quietness of her tone.

“Great. So, you’re going for nature and animals. That’s mine and my boss’ gig. We specialise in that type of design. Have you thought at all what style you want it? Do you want it to be realistic, cartoon-like, geometrical...?”.

“I think I’ll go for realistic”.

“Good. Both of us are doing that. Wanna tell me what days you’re available?”.

“Yeah, sure. How does... Friday sound? Sorry, it’s actually only Friday. I’m getting off work quite late the rest of the week”.

“Friday’s cool, sweetie. It’s just that I’m not coming in on Fridays. It’s my day off. Would you be okay if my boss took you up? Don’t you worry, he’s gentle. Won’t feel a damn thing”.

Natasha told her, but she didn’t reply immediately. There was silence on the other side of the phone, silence I had no idea how to interpret and didn’t even know if I should. Assuming things had never been my cup of tea, in all honesty. But the absence of that delicate voice was making me kind of fidgety, not to mention, a bit concerned. One minute, gradually became two and Nat was about to ask the woman if she was still on the line when suddenly I heard her again.

“Okay”, that was all she said.

“Okay? You sure?”.

“Yeah, ehm, ... whatever”.

 _Whatever?_ , I repeated inwardly, trying not to be too offended. It wasn’t the word itself that annoyed me, but the standoffish way in which she said it. As if she had to do something far more important at the moment and was only gracing us with her time out of kindness.

Her voice had turned rushed as if she was in a hurry and for some reason, I immediately began finding excuses for her. Usually, I didn’t care about justifying others, but something inside pushed me into thinking that things were not as they seemed. That what I heard was in truth, something completely different.

“Alright then. Can you give me your number and your e-mail address so that I can send you some of his designs?”.

“Yeah, sure. It’s Arabella McArthur and the email address is [arabellamc@gmail.com](mailto:arabellamc@gmail.com)”.

Natasha scribbled down the information and pulled the post-it off its base to slam it on the counter.

 _Arabella_ , I thought. Arabella, like that song I liked.

“Great. Got you. Bear in mind, animals, realistic ones especially, have great detail so you’re gonna have to stay with us for at least four to five hours. We need a lot of time to tattoo it right”.

“Yeah, okay. I... I thought so”.

“Good. How does...”, Nat skimmed a fingertip over the calendar, “... 5:30 in the afternoon sound?”.

“It works, yeah”.

“Great. Now, one of the most important questions. Where do you want it?”.

“I’d like it on my rib. Left... rib. If that’s okay”.

“Yeah, that’s just fine. No problem”.

“What about prices? How much do you think it’ll cost me?”.

“Well, each design is different so the prices may vary”.

“That’s okay. As long as it’s good work and I like it...”.

 _It will be damn good work if you are under my hands_ , I thought proudly and couldn’t force back a tiny smile. Under my hands. Why was I smiling?

“Damn straight. Look, I’ll send you estimated prices along with the sketches, okay? So you can get an idea”.

“That would be great, thank you”.

“No worries. I’ll give your number to my boss so he can call you about the specifics. Is that alright with you?”.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead”.

“Wanna write down his as well? You know, if you have any questions and such...”.

“Yes, of course”.

Nat gave her my number quickly as I stared down at my half ready sketch. I went to pick up my pencil but changed my mind when I heard her voice reach me once more. Why was it so consuming? I’ve never known myself to be distracted by voices. Or aroused.

“Got it. Thank you”.

“Is this your first?”, Nat asked.

“My... first...”.

“Your first tattoo I mean”.

“Oh. Yes, and... I’m... I’m a little nervous if I have to be honest”, she admitted. The image of her still unknown face, blushing and looking down, suddenly flashed before my eyes, making me shift on my chair. So she was a tattoo virgin...

“Aw, don’t be. Promise he’ll take good care of you”.

 _Yes, yes, I will_ , I urgently confirmed, nervously scratching at my jaw.

“Okay. Can I... can I ask you something?”, she stuttered, drawing my full attention.

“Yeah, of course, sweetie”.

There was silence for a bit and then a short sniff of her nose.

“You said he’s gentle. Did you... did you mean it? Like... you didn’t say it to calm me down, right?”.

A shudder went through me then, raising to attention every fibre and every thin hair I had on my body, including those feisty ones at the nape of my neck. My lips parted in silent confusion as I wondered why would she ask such a thing. Was she young? Was she scared of contact? Damn it, sometimes, those observing skills of mine were a true, disgusting curse.

I looked at Nat square in the eye and she returned the gaze, her brows furrowed in equal bamboozlement.

“He is, sweetie. True teddy bear on the inside. You know what the people say. Rough hands, warm heart”.

The woman chuckled at the other end, a short, genuine giggle that almost made me blush. Almost.

“Now, some advice before we hang up”, Nat continued, “Prior to coming to us make sure you got something in your stomach. Something salty, preferably. Loads of water, please, and no creams or moisturisers on the skin we’ll be working on. Just a quick shower is enough. Alright?”.

“Absolutely, yeah. Thank you again”.

“Don’t mention it. See you on Friday, 5:30”.

“Okay. Bye”.

“Bye”.

Natasha put the earpiece down and joined us again on the table, swaying her hips playfully from side to side.

“Your appointment is all settled, mister”, she chirped, pulling her chair back and sitting down.

I thanked her and picked up my pencil again, this time not thinking too much before I drew the lines on the tiger’s bodice correctly.

“Nat?”.

“Shoot”.

“Did she sound scared to you?”, I asked, regretting it instantly. I never asked such things and never expected honest answers from people. But this time, I didn’t know why I broke my rule. I felt like I should.

“Relax, big guy. She was nervous. She’ll be fine. It’s her first ink. She said so”, Jeremy said, but I wasn’t quite buying it.

“Or she got our number as she passed by the studio and took a peek inside, saw who’s gonna tattoo her and regretted making that phone call in the first place”, Nat teased, but I wasn’t smiling.

“Fuck off. You seem to forget who’s paying you, miss”.

She darted her tongue out at me and returned to her work, not paying me any mind.

“No seriously, she might be right. That savageness, that glorious curly floof. So untamed, so rough, so sexy. What woman would think you’re a nice human being? You’re too damn handsome”, Jeremy commented.

“You’re like a candy bar”, Nat added.

“Like a long, yummy candy bar”.

“You know what Jeremy?”, I interjected.

“What?”.

“Fuck off”.

That only got him laughing.

“Candy bar that can turn into sexy caveman in a flash. Chicks dig that”, Nat complimented.

“Yeah, like, one minute soft and the other ‘woman, I’ll drag you back to the cave by the hair’”.

“That’s it. You’re both fired. I’m going to hire more respectful people”.

“No, ya ain’t”, Jeremy argued, shaking with laughter.

 

 

**. . .**

 

 

**Arabella**

 

I put the earpiece down, exhaling quite audibly. I was going to do this. I was actually going to do this. Or, better, someone else was going to do it _to me_. My breath came out a little shaky as I thought about it one more time. Was I sure about this? Did I really want to do it? Did I really want to have a permanent animal on my skin, which, despite its beauty and grace, was still a permanent design that would potentially need loads of money to be removed, if I changed my mind five years from now.

No. That wasn’t the first question I asked myself as I sighed and moved over to the sofa, slumping down like a clumsy giraffe, putting my feet up on my little wooden coffee table. My calves felt heavier than usual. The bone keeping them upright, as if made of bricks. I stared at the title of a book I had left on top, anxiously biting the edge of my lip. _Lawrence of Arabia_. The genius that denied leadership.

Did I really want a man touching me? Probing me? Stretching my skin to its full capacity and hitting it with a needle? Did I really want someone looming over me like a hawk, ready to pounce first chance he got, in order to inspect his work? Did I really want him spewing my blood all over his white surgical gloves as he hurt me?

No. But I wanted that tattoo. I wanted that swallow on my left rib. I wanted it to be a crucible for change and forgetfulness. I needed to turn it into a sign of better times to come. To fill its feathers with the lovely message of hope and restoration.

The idea had begun taking shape in my mind a couple of weeks ago. Coming home from work at the agency, I always enjoyed stopping for a few moments to sit on that rusty bench on Hyde Park. I hadn’t done it in a while though since I had only recently returned to my position. So without further due, I had taken a seat there, put my briefcase beside me and closed my eyes for a bit. It’s true what they say about the senses. When you lose one, the others are instantly heightened. My firmly closed eyes gave the opportunity to my ears to listen better. They gave the chance to my nose to smell deeper and to my skin to feel the textures of things meticulously.

That’s when I heard them. Swallows. So many of them. Tiny, squeaky voices calling to each other, beckoning towards the safety of the trees. I listened to the flutter of their wings. They sounded like they were flying right next to me. For a moment, I foolishly thought they were coming to me, talking to me, trying to keep me company, offer me some songs. I had opened my eyes slowly in hopes of locating them, but when my eyes found their focus, I realised that they had flown away. It was late autumn. Logical that they were on their way to warmer climates.

Sometimes I found myself wanting to escape this place as well. Fly away from the constant humidity, annoying drizzle and suffocating gas of London. No wonder the British went around in shorts and blouses every time the sun decided to grace this filthy pile of sidewalks, buildings, firms, agencies, stupid lined up houses and noisy streets that were this city.

_You know what the people say. Rough hands, warm heart._

That’s what the girl on the phone had said. The notion had made me laugh though, yet not out of happiness, but rather out of irony. Would he really be gentle, whoever _he_ was? Would he really take good care of me? I supposed he would. Besides, he had to be kind and welcoming in his trade. He had to be able to exercise qualities like these in order to draw customers in and make them trust him with their bodies. I didn’t feel particularly inclined to think about what he did when he didn’t work. People are chameleons. They can assume so many colours, so many personas. I was not about to start unravelling his. Whoever _he_ was.

I just wanted my tattoo. My little reminder that when things get too cold, I should seek warmth elsewhere, in more prosperous grounds, in more giving hearts.

The thought brought a little shy smile to my lips and as I drew my soft, velvety blanket up my body and curled cosily at the corner of the sofa, getting myself to my private safe place, all I could hear inside my head was the words of that girl on the phone.

 _Rough hands, warm heart_ . _See you on Friday, at 5:30._

I repeated it to myself until I fell asleep, desperately trying to believe it.

 


	2. The Night Is Getting Old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. It's two o'clock in the early morning in the gloomy UK and I couldn't sleep, so I thought I would edit this little chapter right here and post it. Let me just quickly mention that I quite liked the fact that there was some response to this fic, since it's something entirely new for me to write. I was not sure how people were going to take it but I think it is going pretty well so far. So, thank you. 
> 
> By now, you might have noticed that I skip the summary section. Yeah, that happens because unlike Rhythm of our Bodies, Movement of our Souls, this fic deals in only two basic themes whilst the other one covers a pretty wide sexual spectrum. But this one will be focused on only two things. Each chapter has an abstract essence. Things aren't very clear, the writing style is immediate and seldom poetic, the point of view is quite original so you can conclude from that that summaries for each chapter would actually do the chapters no good. It's better to just read the story, not as it picks up from the previous chapters, but as a continuous piece of fiction with small pauses and exclusions.
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore their rights belong to their respective owners. 
> 
> Thank you for your support and response!

Tom

  
  


“I think one should be asking you just a si- single question, big guy”, Jeremy mumbled out, smiling sleepily and staring into my eyes like he was in love. A few more pints than usual always got him to that state of mind. Hilarious, really, until he started dozing off and falling off the stool.

“What question might that be?”, I asked, not truly out of interest, but out of a humorous need to hear what he was going to say whilst under the influence of six beers, thank you very much.

People were equally gathered and scattered all around the moderately small space of C's n' W's tonight, chatting to each other, having animated conversations about families, children's parties, girlfriends, wives, life's disappointments and much more. It was almost as if we were all thrown together into a hurricane of our own making, with noise of our own production and absent mind touches on elbows and knees that we couldn't seem to keep back.

I was part of a large group of friends, some of them constants, some just dropping by after work for a catch-up and some others, friends for life really. Nat and Jer belonged to the latter category of course, and between the three of us, those random touches and knee bumps more often than not didn't even seem untoward or made anyone feel wrong.

A special type of bond had developed between us. Boarding school and then School of Arts for three years is no small thing, no small amount of time for three kids to start cultivating their own personal immortality sachet. All the others around me were merely acquaintances. People I often talked to and paid attention to what they had to say, but didn't really trust on a daily basis. Still, each and every one was part of the sect and I often did my best to include all, even if, towards the early hours of the morning, Jer and Nat were the only ones I wanted to hear or drive home safe.

“Oh, well, isn't it obvious, you old man?”.

I squinted at him, smiling a toothless smile.

He sighed heavily before answering, “Female company of course”.

“What about female company?”.

“Why do you not have it?”.

I chuckled lightly, not sure myself what the proper answer to that was. Natasha buried her face in her hands, chuckling as well and chocking on a gulp of beer.

“Why? Why are you two laughing? This is serious talk. Don't you know that- that Witney Huston song, like, it goes like... _what's a man without a womaaann_...”.

“Oh, God, shut up, you're making a fool of yourself”, Nat cut in, punching him on the shoulder. He almost fell over the stool so I had to reach across and steady him before he managed to meet the floor unceremoniously.

“Oh, I don't know Jeremy. Want to enlighten me perhaps? What's a man without a woman?”.

I raised my brows expectantly, amused in advance by whatever he was going to throw at me. I took a sip from my beer, Guinness, strong and slightly bitter, and cast a look around the room.

Behind and under the people's feet and above the noise and chattering, tiny visages of the décor in this pub could be located. We've been coming here since the beginning of time, but I've never once failed to observe this place's impeccable sense of style. It matched my own, somewhat, so it was only natural I was drawn to it.

It was a modest, lovely establishment with low lights and rustic furniture, whose reddish and copper colours warmed the heart. It was true that on the outside it looked a little rough, but it was actually a very welcoming beckon of joy for anyone who was brave enough to venture inside. With other pubs in London, I felt that people, especially the shyer ones, needed great guts to take a seat and grab a beer amongst the locals. But not this one. This one, and I say this with undeniable honesty, was the warmest place one could find themselves in. No matter its ragged and worn out look, inside everyone was treated with respect.

The walls around me were clad in red bricks, mimicking that Manchester industrial of many older buildings in the area. Pictures and steel objects, like parts of clocks or old pipes, created a lovely contrast in colour. Rusty grey on brownish red. There was incredible woodwork on the ceiling and large aluminium tubes extending from one side of the pub to the other, some of them in use and some others purely for the sake of art deco. But my favourite part was the far back of the establishment, for there, customers got access to a makeshift library whose shelves held upright hundreds of books. Second copies mostly, but that was of no importance. Many a time I had come in here by daylight to simply grab a cup of coffee, Americano, bitter as well, and read some old story, bundled up in a leather cover of some century past. I got the feeling of being somewhere else. Not in this artistic pub. Not in England. But somewhere sophisticated. Probably in some place featured in the book I happened to be reading at the moment.

“I don't know what's a man without a woman, but, I do know what _happens_ to a man without a woman”.

“Do tell”, Natasha urged him on.

“His balls fall off”.

I threw my head back in elation, laughing my lungs out at the crash comment. Most of the time I had no idea what he was talking about, but right now, I believe his point was abundantly clear.

“What are you on Jeremy? You know that doesn't actually happen”.

“No, no. It fucking does, big guy. It does. Have you checked them lately?”.

“Are you really asking me if I've checked my balls?”.

Jeremy nodded, “Don't they need to some action? Some creative... exercise?”.

“Shame on you. Nat's listening”, I chastised.

“Oh, no. Don't mind me. I think he's right”.

“Not you too”, I rolled my eyes at her.

“What? It's about time, don't you think? I mean... you're already forty, right?”.

“You wound me, dearest. Thirty-eight come February”.

Both Nat and Jeremy clamped their hands down on their mouths, their eyes going wide. They often reacted in the same manner, so quickly, that I was beginning to think their brains were synced.

“Okay. Be honest with us”, Natasha said after a moment, “Are you afraid of getting a girl's knickers down cause you still haven't popped your cherry?”.

That got me laughing again. Little did she knew...

“My... _cherry._.. is absolutely popped, thank you very much”.

“Then what is it?”.

“Why do you think there's something going on in the first place?”, I challenged, drinking my beer just a tad faster.

“I'm not. It's just that... man, you got it all. Look at you. Handsome, tall, beards, tattoos, a gentleman. How come there's no one special in your life?”.

“Or even a standby fuck”, Jeremy added sleepily.

“You two seem to be more interested in my sex life than I am”, I joked light-heartedly.

“Well, you're the only one who's not getting any. We are concerned friends”, Nat divulged.

“What about that one?”, Jeremy suddenly said, pointing with his finger at a woman on my left who was leaning over the counter talking to the bartender.

I turned my head towards the direction he was indicating, “What about her?”.

“Well, what do you think? Does she make _little Tom_ jump and cry?”.

I chocked back a giggle and tried to focus on the woman under inspection. She was a nice little thing, for sure. Short, graceful, with long wavy golden curls that almost reached her enticingly half naked bottom. She was wearing a mini black dress with lace embroidery at the back, which only brought out the paleness of her skin underneath. Every once in a while she brushed her hair to one side, revealing her shoulders alternatively. She had a nice bone structure. Thin and delicate, but not childlike. My eyes guiltily fell to the exposed backs of her thighs and squinted at the spot, my head going wild with thoughts I shouldn't be having, but had anyway.

“Sooo...”, Jeremy pressed.

“So, she's decent”, I commented, drawing my gaze away.

“Decent? Oh, come on. You know, she was looking at you before”.

“Not my type”.

“And what's your type? Man... it's just fucking. You don't need to have a type”.

 _Yes, I do,_ I thought in melancholy.

“Don't you have other matters to occupy yourselves with instead of trying to get me laid?”, I argued, looking from one to the other. Truth been told, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Thankfully, a song I quite liked came up and blissfully distracted me from my friends' ongoing torture. It was some old American country tune I always sang along to upon hearing. Before I knew it, I was tapping my foot on the hard floor, trying to follow the tempo, my pressed together lips itching from the vibration of my humming.

“No, tell us. What's your type? In all the years we've known you, old man, you have never let anything on”.

“And I never shall”, I insisted, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Oh, you're boring tonight”, Natasha mocked and got up to get to the loo.

That night we ended it quickly because Jeremy had emptied about two barrels and I was certain that if he didn't get some sleep soon, he wouldn't be able to come to work tomorrow. For all of our sakes, his shift didn't start until after 12:00 in the morning.

I got him in a cab, carrying almost his full weight on me, trying not to laugh at his dirty remarks and the smoochie sounds his lips made as he blew me kisses. He actually went as far as promising me a night of many pleasures and 'intimate discoveries', as he so eloquently put it.

Natasha went with him, politely refusing to leave him alone in that state. He wouldn't even be able to remember in which pocket he had shoved his house keys.

“Aren't you leaving?”, she told me before bending down to enter the cab.

I shook my head no, “I'm going to stay for a little while. Drink some water. I'm driving, remember?”.

She nodded and hastily kissed me good night on the cheek.

“See you tomorrow then”.

After they were gone, I took a deep breath, savouring the cold that assaulted my lungs and returned promptly to the warmth of the pub. Only this time, I didn't assume my previous position on the stool.

Briefly scanning the still crowded room, I tried to find that woman from before. She was still there, leaning on the counter, but the man with whom she was previously talking had left. She was playing with the olive in her drink now, lazily turning it around, properly soaking it in the alcohol before she raised it to her lips.

I couldn't help myself nor the reactions of my body as she sucked her cheeks in and tasted it, slightly biting at it before she got it down her throat. My mind blurred, clouded in sudden need and desire to just bent her over that counter in front of everyone.

Maybe I was starting to pace towards her already. Maybe her dress had been bunched up a little higher than before. Maybe I smiled at her when we met eyes. Maybe she turned around, brushing her hair behind her shoulders to show off the valleys of her lush breasts when she realised I was going to sit right next to her.

I looked away from her for a second to address the waitress passing by.

“Jameson, please”, I ordered.

“Coming right up”.

I turned my attention back to the woman with the blonde curls, watching her half amused, half deeply sad, as she flaunted herself and took a sip of her drink. Gin, I supposed.

A couple of minutes after, the waitress brought my drink over and I eagerly dawned it, exhaling in satisfaction as the scorching sensation of it purged my throat. If I was going to do this, I needed all the cloudiness of mind I could get.

I put the glass down and regarded her in a quiet tone, not wishing to impose on her, just in case I had read the signs wrong.

“Alone tonight, are we?”.

“Quite”, she agreed, flashing a smile at me.

“You know, my friend saw you looking at me before. Funny fellow. Very protective. He notices these things. Keeps me away from trouble”.

She laughed pretensiously. I pretended to like the sound of it, she pretended not to have seen how I didn't laugh back.

“And you?”, she asked.

“What of me?”.

“Are you the protective type?”, she clarified, her hand reaching out to squeeze my knee.

A smile of invitation was lingering on her lips, I noticed. She was trying too hard, but that wasn't much of a bother. Besides, it didn't affect what I wanted from her, nor what she wanted from me. Sometimes, between two strangers, it is as simple as that.

“That depends. Do you need my protection tonight?”, I bargained.

She smirked and darted her tongue out to lick at her bottom lip. She sucked it into her mouth, her teeth holding it in place. Much like _I_ wanted to hold _her_ in place.

“Got a place?”, she suggested as if having read my thoughts.

I got up then and headed towards the exit, smiling invitingly over my shoulder. As expected, she followed suit.

 

**. . .**

 

****

Arabella

  
  


  
  


I was at a restaurant, one of those expensive looking ones that my colleagues loved to dine in whenever they got the chance. One of those places that boasted about their famous ,Michelin stars and charged the lobster salad one hundred pounds. Thank God we had just been given a raise from our boss. The others had ordered wine, some ten-year-old bottle. I was just fine with my modest water. If anything else, it helped me keep a clear mind throughout the tortuous evening.

We were all out tonight, in this luxurious establishment, celebrating the success of a book's publication that had brought millions to our agency with its sellings. It was written by some sixty-year-old guy who couldn't stand American politics, probably because he was British and who had apparently found loads and loads of people who agreed with him and his whims. Apart from that, I didn't know anything else about it. It hadn't been my department's responsibility to see its publication through. And besides, I wasn't even in that line of work. I was in editing. I was only invited to this 'celebration' by courtesy, I knew, but that was fine.

Taking the reasons for invite aside, it was good for me to venture away from the security of my flat and socialize. Or at least, listen to other people socializing. My psychologist had insisted it would be a beneficial process that would help me 'mingle back into the social circles of my working environment', as she had put it. Because, I was literally _dying_ to get back into the world, and I say this with the highest degree of irony.

But despite my reasons for wanting to abstain from the frivolity, I decided to take the woman's advice, merely to see what would happen. How it would make me feel to be, sort of, included in a larger circle of people. Well, in a larger circle of women, that was, because the men in the agency had decided to pick a pub over a restaurant. Better choice that we were separate tonight. Drunk men, slurping and leering was the last thing I wished to experience tonight, tomorrow, for the next century and a half.

So I sat quietly in my corner, sipping my water, waiting in silent urgency the moment it would make me want to pee so I could excuse myself, and listened to the women around me talk about _everything_ except for the success of the book publication.

“Shut the front door, you slut”, Angie boomed. She was head of the finance department. Really good with numbers, I supposed, “Can't believe you're getting married to that beast!”.

“Yes, I am. Yes, I am”, Vicky chirped, full of excitement. Vicky was in public relations, a woman who took way too seriously lingering handshakes and never failed to comment on other women's clothes, “And don't call him that. He's a sweetheart on the inside. He might not look it, but...”.

She was talking about her three-year-old relationship with some man named Sebastian, who, she claimed, had cried during his wedding proposal to her. I had never laid eyes on him, but from the other women's descriptions, the picture I created in my mind was some type of salt of the earth, smell of grass, savage heart caveman with warm brown eyes and rough manners.

 _Rough hands, warm heart_ , I reminded myself for the millionth time, my thoughts daring to flit back to the conversation I had had on the phone. _Rough hands, warm heart_ , I repeated, my own inner voice sounding exhausted.

“But? What do you mean 'but'?”, Angie picked up, lifting an eyebrow suggestively.

Vicky bit her lip and leaned forward to whisper, “Well... you call him a beast generally, but the truth is... he is only a beast in bed”.

Angie gaped excitedly, some other girls on my left clapping and whistling in awe and approval. What did they approve exactly about Vicky's private matters, I couldn't understand. But I guessed that if she was willing to put them out there, make them known, then that enabled people to have an opinion on the subject. I wasn't like that, so I stayed silent.

“Oh God, do tell”.

“Yes, tell us Vick, how hard does he fuck?”.

My stomach jumped at the sound of the crass expression, the water suddenly turning to ash in my mouth. I swallowed rapidly and set my glass down, my eyes falling to my lap where I had already started to massage my thigh through my skirt. It was a self-soothing thing I did since I was but little and as of recent, I was catching myself doing it almost all the time.

Vicky giggled conspirationally, a piercing sound that drew my attention back to her megawatt smile.

“Let's just say... very... very hard, to the point where my neighbours once called the police on us”.

The girls erupted in laughter, some of them gasping out their sheer amusement at the revelation. I couldn't laugh though. I couldn't even smile at her, confirming how wonderful it is to have the police at your house because your man made noise and had the bed springs creak under you. Different context, I know. I knew that. But still, it was difficult for me to see reason in it.

“And to think that... that... when we first did it-”.

“Yeah?”.

“He couldn't even push it all the way in”.

Another boot of giggles and overexcited laughter. By this point, the general nausea my body produced on its own accord had started to ascend towards my neck.

Hiss and snap.

Hiss and snap.

_You think you can run away from me? I've ruined you..._

_You know what the people say. Rough hands, warm heart._

I grabbed my water again and drank it quickly in hopes that its cooling sensation would stop my stomach from lurching.

“Damn, girl. Is it really that big?”.

Vicky nodded enthusiastically. In derision I thought, is that why she's marrying him...

I took a quick look around the room to distract myself from the ongoing conversation if one could call it that. To me, it sounded like a shrieking sequence of awe remarks and early menopause, but that was just me being sarcastically cruel. It was sad, really. In my twenty-four years I should be all over the place and completely embedded in conversations like these, retelling my experiences, commenting on how tight someone's ass was, giggling with friend's as guys were trying to get our attention. But I just wasn't. I couldn't anymore. It was all so vain and exhausting and besides, I had adjusted my life to staying away from company. Of all kinds. And it was far more peaceful that way, I had discovered.

All around me the expensive mahogany tables were full, all hosting ladies and gentlemen from the highest ranks of society or of average income, at least. The women, including my colleagues, were dressed in lovely evening or cocktail dresses and the men rocked tuxedos with bow ties. They complemented this place so well since its general aura screamed of 20's in Chigaco city, an era of money, entertainment and prohibition of that which, if you had the guts, was not prohibited at all. That picture of Merilyn Monroe on the wall right across me made me want to laugh hysterically because, despite the restaurant's put together and neat style, this picture looked so out of context. Not in the sense that it was a looser element, or something cheap. It was simply that, for me, Merilyn's finesse and sensuality didn't bide well with this interior whose occupants seemed like they had a stick up their asses. Wound tight and none smiling and yet... Merilyn, up on that wall, was giving them the best show while watching over all of them.

And here I was, clad in my black pencil skirt, black, tight crew neck and black, leather pumps, of no significant height, I was already freakishly tall, sipping on my water and playing with the lobster on my pricy salad, unmoving, unsmiling, just blank. I didn't even have makeup on. What the hell for? I was letting the other women steal the show with their cat-like lines and heavy shadows and mat lipsticks. I was more in the business of looking as small and unassuming as possible. If I could magically evaporate my existence, then even better. Even this salad was too flamboyant for my tastes, but it was tasty so I wasn't complaining much to the voice inside my head.

A man behind me suddenly laughed at some joke the girl he was escorting made and I jumped on my seat. So engrossed I had been to my little observations of people and space that my grip on the glass loosened and I almost dropped the water all over the tablecloth. At the last minute, I steadied myself and saved the, also, expensive looking, cloth from a proper soaking. I got away just with a resounding clung that got everyone's attention, as the bottom of my glass made embarrassing contact with the edge of my plate.

“Arabella, you alright? You seem tired”, Angie addressed me quietly. Her voice seemed wrong in my ears. Its light tone ran so incongruous to the robustness of moments ago.

“I'm... fine. I think... I think I'll retire soon if that's alright with you. Long day at the office. It starts affecting me now”.

“Oh, damn I get you. I mean, I don't 'get you' get you, but I got a feeling editing is hard”.

“It is. Sometimes”.

“Well, you're the one busting writers' heads and correcting all their grammar. Without you the agency would never have made such success, darling”, she complimented and Vicky, as well as another girl, named Gia, nodded to affirm it.

I smiled a condescending smile at them and returned to my salad, wanting to finish it before I headed home.

Half an hour later, I was kissing them all goodbye, wishing them a happy evening and raising my now empty glass in toast to the success of the book. Thankfully, none of them seemed to notice that behind my tiredness and the dark circles under my eyes, a quiet need for forgiveness hang. I don't know exactly why I felt sorry to be leaving them. I supposed it was out of courtesy that I had been invited and out of courtesy that I had stayed as long as I had, but still. Their company hadn't been all that bad after all, although I would never admit that to my psychologist.

I got my long coat from the wardrobe at the front and ventured out into the cold breeze of the night. I started walking home, alone and kind of scared, for the shadows of buildings and fully stacked bins extended ominously towards me under the street lamp lights, as if they had invisible claws that yearned to snatch me into the darkness.

I let the breeze hit my cheeks and freeze them as much as possible. I enjoyed the numbness of it, although I knew that I'd be cursing as soon as I'd enter the warmth of my flat. I hated the feeling that followed after extreme cold. Those pins and needles that rapidly pierced the skin and made it itch afterwards due to blood rush. But it was beautiful to just let go and surrender to the wind, even for a couple of flitting moments.

Some hundred and twenty steps afterwards, I'd be inside, where there would be no cathartic wind. Just the warmth of a candle and my usual banking down on the sofa.

 

 

**. . .**

 

Tom

 

Unlocking the door to my apartment on the fifth floor I glanced behind my shoulder to see if she was still coming. If she was still up for it. Pretty little thing was walking down the hall, slowly towards me, with the utmost confidence, swaying those luscious hips of hers from left to right in perfect tandem.

On the drive here she'd told me her name was Nina. Sweet name for an equally sweet face. All soft cheeks and beautiful china blue eyes she was, with those long curls cascading down her shoulders to her waist like waterfalls of pure gold. To my eyes, she was almost too perfect a sight. Too beautiful and unscathed and glamorous for a seemingly brooding and reserved type like me.

From my friends' frequent comments I usually exuded the exact opposite vibration, much to my surprise. They were always pestering me about how women really saw me and what impression they created, but I never enjoyed such attention. As far as I knew, my simplicity and quiet nature should have been reason enough to throw women's expectations off, not lure them in all the more. How I did that was and still is beyond my understanding. I suppose in the end it's got to do with a bunch of chemical stuff and intricate cocktails of pheromones and endorphins, cocktails that I failed to understand even in college in spite of my successes with the female population back there.

“Are you alright?”, I asked her still. Just in case she had changed her mind whilst in the front seat of a car, gazing at the much tormented and rough profile of a man who wasn't sure he really wished for a quickie, or while riding the elevator with the freakishly tall figure of someone who seemed totally uninterested in anything else but her lovely warmth for the night.

“Alright as in 'do you really want to do this'?”, she clarified, giving me a once-over, long eyelashes battering prettily as she inspected me.

I shrugged lightly, “I suppose”.

“Well, I wouldn't be here if I didn't, right?”.

I didn't reply verbally as I held the door open for her. Just the slightest pull at the corners of my lips, enough to form an understanding grin and provide her with the reassuring answer she needed. Who was I to second-guess her motives? Maybe she was just a loner, like me.

I let the door shut behind us and locked it, promptly dropping the set of keys into the little tray at the small desk at the hall. As soon as the clinking sound lightly echoed through the walls of the flat, I heard my fierce guardian's pitter-patter on the polished floor as well as his excited panting that I was finally home. It wasn't long before he came into view, welcoming me home in his most sweet way.

“Oh, you've got a little friend here. So sweet...”, Nina commented, bending her knees to give him a good scratch behind the ears. I stupidly wondered if she knew that was his vice all along, being petted behind those fluffy antlers he called ears. Give Dotty a good rub and a beautiful female to gaze up at and he'll become your slave.

I smiled at the sight of him rolling around on the floor, trying to persuade her into touching him more and more, rub him in all the right spots. Who wouldn't smile at such an adorable scene, really? And yet before I knew it, I actually began to feel jealous of the little youngster, of his keen ability to capture the girl's attention better than myself. It was an odd feeling. I don't believe many masters get offended by their pets' adorableness, but I suddenly was.

I chuckled at the thought as I approached them both. Nina heard my steps upon the floor and straightened, but the little intruder stayed put, looking at me upside down, begging me not to do what he knew I had to, eventually.

“Dotty...”, I began softly, hoping he would listen. Most of the time he was obedient when it suited him, but tonight I really needed him to work with me, “Daddy has a guest to entertain. Wanna go to the next room for a while? I'll owe you one”.

He huffed in misery and utter disappointment but did as I asked, in his own very special slow pace, of course. Truthfully, taking the time of his life to roll over onto his clumsy feet and scamper away into the kitchen, where one of his personal sleeping baskets awaited.

The girl giggled knowingly, obviously recognising the act of defiance.

“You've trained him well, huh?”, she said, but I wasn't sure if she really needed an answer to that.

Instead, I took a step into the general space of the living room and proposed, “Want a drink?”.

She shook her head negatively, licking at her lower lip almost suggestively, “No. Not really”.

I nodded, pressing my lips together until they turned white and tingly, “Yeah. Me neither”.

I couldn't say she wasn't a tough and persistent woman. I gave her every chance to leave, but she'd chosen to stay, no obvious alarms going off in her head that she shouldn't. She needed something from me. I needed something from her. It was a business transaction if anything else. Like the orders I was making every week for inks and equipment. So simple that it was losing its meaning. But I suppose meaning wasn't what I was looking for tonight. Rather the absence of it was my purpose and intent.

My body was thankfully ahead of me, as my head was still trying to figure out why the hell was I doing this again.  My feet were taking me towards her before my heart could tell them to back off and leave her be. My hands, a little rough and calloused from the endless sketching and tattooing were reaching out to grab her before my very soul could call them away. My mouth was already crashing against hers before I had the chance to open my eyes and realise that I would never see this woman again in my life, for she was not the one that called out to me. 

As I pushed her backwards, into my bedroom, I knew that it was only her warmth I yearned to experience and for that, I cannot hide, I felt insurmountable guilt rising up within me. But not even guilt can stop pending desire, not in this very intimate case and especially in the light of the knowledge that I too am just a body to her. Just a tool to make her scream, just tongue and teeth to force her to submit, just hands to push her down on the bed and help her have a good time, just a cock to make her cum a few times before she returned to work in the morning.

Thinking this way offered me enough consolation to undress her, push her coat off her shoulders and unzip her lovely dress just enough to help her shrug out of it. When it hit the floor with a final little thump I was unfortunately too familiar with, I slowed down just a tad to take a good look at her. It would be a lie if I said my loins didn't brutalise me within the confines of my jeans at the sight of her.

She was wearing no bra under that dress, so the minute I relieved her from it her perky breasts popped out like a much too sweet promise, like the quick time lapse of lotus flowers blooming up in springtime. Pinky, almost reddish nipples pricking up invitingly, calling me to bend down and suck them so hard, almost as if desperate for motherly nourishment. Those generous slopes led down to a shapely thorax and waist, almost like an hourglass but not quite. The girl was mouth waterignly juicy in all the right parts, God be my witness and truly bore the body all artists wanted to paint, sketch, fuck, taste, draw. My more sensitive nature thought it was a huge waste, a terrible shame that I couldn't see her as anything, _but_ , a body.

My eyes wandered further down to the almost none existent flimsy piece of fabric that adorned her pelvis, white and lacy tiny thing, innocent looking but devilishly crafted to leave not so much to the imagination. Just by looking at it I was caught in the midst of a desperate urge to rip it off her with my teeth, tear it away from her most sacred treasures, treasures that for the night, were meant to be my escape. Daringly enough, that thing was standing in my way.

The time in between my shrugging off my jacket and attacking her was almost limited to mere seconds. I grabbed her hastily by the waist, there was no better nor honest way to describe it, and hoisted her up. Her legs came to wrap around my waist quickly before I could actually feel her full weight, which in truth was utterly insignificant. She was so tiny after all, and since the heels she was wearing had been successfully gotten rid off, even shorter than I'd thought her back in the pub. But her hands were soft as she anchored them behind my neck, her fingers gentle as she inserted them into my moderately tamed curls and her thighs plump and hot as they encircled me and just for this night, under the guise of simply needing to get off, feeding myself the excuse of just wanting a quick relief, I convinced myself that those basic qualities would be enough.

I gently laid her on the mattress, not bothering to draw the covers down, and got on top of her, but kept most of my own weight off her body, a bit conscious that I would crush her if I didn't. Once I made sure she was comfortable enough under me, my kisses became endless upon her, my lips tenacious in their quest to cover every inch of her. She whined and gasped and writhed, her hands pulling at my hair, undecided as to whether or not she wanted to pull me closer or push me away entirely. Her neck and shoulders were a bliss to discover, healthy and broad and perfect to tease and worry. I wouldn't leave marks on her, by any means, but that didn't mean she wouldn't feel what I'd planned for her the morning after. If I knew myself just a bit I was far from arrogant, but I would like to think after a week or so, that I gave her a time to remember.

I touched her reverently, squeezing her waist, palming her soft breasts as if they were prizes won in battle, my fingers occasionally digging into her skin to draw her back to reality just enough for my mouth to raise her up again into the clouds.

Her first mistake though was that she didn't ultimately surrender, as I would have preferred, but decided to slide her hands down to the front of my jeans and attempt to release me. Her second slight came with her words, impatiently voiced and just strained enough to excite the deeper, darker visages of my making.

Between tiny gasps, she breathed, “Fuck... come on, please, this is torture”.

And yet I simply smiled against her breast before my mouth clamped down on her nipple. Pulling it up with my teeth I heard her curse me to hell and back, but by then I was too lost to even care.

She tried to make quick work of my zipper, “Please, just... just fuck me already”.

I gathered her stubborn arms up and pinned them above her head, crossing her wrists roughly and holding them down with just one hand. She winced a little but laughed it off, a low sound that dared me to do my worst.

“Scream more, speak less”, I growled against her stomach and in response she raised her head just enough to look at me wide-eyed, her breasts rising and falling with each rapid breath she took.

We both smirked simultaneously, agreeing on the spot how this was going to go, and once her head obediently fell back on the mattress and her limbs relaxed under me, I went back to torturing her with the precision and efficiency I also enjoyed applying on my work. I could declare myself happy enough when I ceased holding her down and noticed that her hands stayed put and crossed, above her head, as was my demand.

I travelled down her body in my own pace, hoping to drive her just a bit desperate in the meanwhile, discovering every crook and cranny with my tongue and lips, massaging with my hands all the tenseness I happened to find, making sure she would be ready for rougher attentions later on, for rougher attentions _would_ come.

Reaching her belly, I caught that pretty little white thing between my teeth, pulled at it, played with it a bit, before I hooked my thumbs under its sides and dragged it down her legs, which, once relieved of it, fell far apart as if on their own accord.

“Good girl...”, I rasped, fancying myself impressed by how quickly she got the point and adjusted to my wishes.

My arms immediately wrapped around her spread thighs, my hands keen to cover her hipbones and use them as hooks to hold her down, control her writhing up to some extent.

Perfectly waxed, or shaved, or whatever women subjected themselves to in this day and age, she was, but truthfully, I forced myself to only seek her wetness and compliance and not to establish preference or figure out some aesthetic in her. She was giving me something freely. I should take it as it is and keep my mouth shut. Or, alternatively, too busy for words...

I kissed her deeply, sucking and pulling at her enlarged petals into my mouth before letting them glide out and repeat the act, purposefully ignoring, for the time being, the one spot she wanted me to give attention to the most. And yet, as I found out, she was patient enough to sit back and enjoy, for she gasped and moaned under my ministrations, this time smart enough to let me have my way first, before allowing her a chance at her own body's will.

When I stopped teasing and gently bit down on that tiny bundle of nerves, without warning at all, she gasped loudly and arched her spine, her lovely hips jumping off the mattress before I pinned them back down and continued the treatment.

Flicking, sucking, lavishing her with the attention she craved, ensuring that while under my care she would be treated like the most treasured being, she would feel like a goddess and whatever her reason was for being here, sharing this with me, she would go home in a few hours with no memory of it. For those moments, here, together, I would be the only thing on her mind and that, as a thought, was enough to harden me to perfection.

“Nina?”, I addressed her after a few seconds of letting her catch her breath.

She only but whined in response.

“Do you want to cum, darling?”.

She whined again, I assumed positively.

“How badly do you want it?”, I teased a bit further as I withdrew my now dripping mouth from her core.

She was seething, shaking her head and grinding down on nothing, desperate for friction. Her breasts bounced slightly as she tried to find something hard enough to press herself against and finding nothing at all, she whimpered louder and thrashed under me, pleading me to finish her off.

Chuckling to myself, I grabbed her hips and flipped her over onto her stomach, and before she had the chance to look around in search of answers, I pulled her up onto all fours, using my hold on her to spread her thighs wider.

I was reaching into my back pocket to get a condom, when I heard her inform in a strained tone, “No, it's fine. You... you don't need that... I'm... I'm on the pill”.

I hummed to myself, my eyes squinting at her obedient body. _Young people these days..._

I couldn't resist a little resounding slap upon that lovely plump arse of hers and as I saw her skin redden up immediately in the shape of my hand and her curls flipping back as she threw her head down and hissed, all I could do was unwrap the damn thing fast enough and put it on before bursting point.

“What was that for?”, she complained.

“Irresponsibility”, I chastised as I slid it on and drew her hips back towards me.

Surely she was on the verge of saying something smart in retort, but my first thrust cut her off and instead of words, an anguished moan spewed from her lips. And then whatever she had at the tip of her tongue got lost in the translation of our joined bodies and in the music they produced.

I couldn't restrain my own groaning protestations at her exquisite tightness, which only meant I should be cautious with her and respect her limits. At least that was what half of my brain kept screaming at me. The other half was not quite there, in the midst of the act I was trying to perform. It was almost as if I was split in half. One side of me, grass in the ground and burning hot coal, was here with her, entangled in something that could only be described as mutual and magical, but the other side of me, little comets and stars, had drifted off to some unknown cold land, where I was numb and lonely, in spite of having connected myself to another so intimately. The two parties fought over control and wouldn't let me concentrate on my actual purpose, both trying to divert my attention, both trying to influence my decision. Man or animal...

“Are you alright?”, I asked her, leaning over to brush her hair over one shoulder. Perhaps her answer would provide me with enough enlightenment as to who I should let out tonight. Or what...

She giggled and wiggled her bum prettily against me, sighs interrupting her pants and huffs, “You're the gentleman type, aren't you?”.

“Depends on your wishes”.

“My... my wishes?”.

“Matter of preference”.

She turned her head as far as it would go and looked at me, grinning like she knew something I was ignoring.

“What I'd do to get inside that head of yours...”, she muttered, “I wonder, have you ever let a woman in there?”.

“Once or twice”, I supplied, pressing a tender kiss between her shoulder blades.

“And how did that end?”.

 _Sadly,_ I thought in consternation, secretly cursing her for bringing such occurrences up _._

I straightened again and returned both hands on her hips, keeping her steady for what was about to come.

“No more talking”.

I pushed all the way in, to the point where my balls slightly slapped against her thigh creases, meaningfully ending the tragic topic of conversation.

She gasped loudly, but without resistance started meeting my thrusts, “There he goes. What sort of mood are you in these days?”.

“Varies from moment to moment”, I groaned, administering another slap on her plumpness to ensure silence, “What did I say about the talking?”.

She chuckled but it was cut short as my thrusts became angrier and her pants louder. Guiltily enough, I wasn't after constructive criticism or conversation at the moment. I was after release and so was she. Talking our way into it wouldn't lead to much success.

The first few pushes and grants were an experiment as I attempted to figure out her soft spots, deep inside, as I tried to discover when she screamed more, which angle brought her closer and closer for this was what most men couldn't understand.

When a woman cums, it's to your advantage, for she pulls you so far inside, down the rabbit hole, into the ultimate darkness that you're half terrified that you'll never get out and half relieved that you found the home you'd left behind so long ago. It's always beautiful when she loses her senses and drags you down the endless waterfall with her. When she pushes you to jump. When she helps you drown. Without her, you're nothing. You're just a man who thinks he knows what he's doing. But truthfully, you don't. Because she's your greatest teacher and when inside her, you're a guest in her hall of lecturing.

I pounded into her with barely restrained control, my only guide in this unchartered sea of pleasure, her moans and tiny curse words, eager captains that urged me on to set sail and find the needed destination.

I hope I wasn't holding her too roughly for I didn't wish to leave little moon bruises on her. Leaving bruises is ownership, at least for me, and this one, this lovely sirene with the blonde curls and perfect O mouth, did not belong to me. Nobody belongs to you unless they want it, really. Only the ghost of her would remain come morning light, the only remembrance of her, not even a picture, just a faint smell on my sheets.

I was on the verge of climax already, but I kept myself on a tight leash, wanting to make sure she would see those beautiful stars first, that she would be blinded by that white light of none existence before I joined her.

It wasn't long before I felt her tense under me, her walls clamping down on my cock in sheer agony, her spine creating a stretchy cat arch that I so wanted to press down on, as a claim, as a sign of control over her, but wouldn't. Couldn't. Her breaths were now accompanied by the lilt of her distress, tiny gasps turning into long and lingering intakes of air and in a matter of seconds, she jumped into the warm waters, grabbing my hand to forcefully bring me down with her.

I was never one for saying no to a swim and this particular one, hell, it was the only one that numbed me enough to render me raw and content for some blissful amount of time.

Even with the condom on, I didn't want to remain inside her for more than I had the right to, so I pulled out just a bit, once I had regained at least a few parts of my rationality.

Looking down between her rosy arse and myself I was dumbstruck by the sudden realisation that while she was completely bare, I had kept on all of my clothes, minus the jacket. I smiled to myself, for I loved this. I was an addict for the contrast in coverage, happiest when they shed all their bearings and inhibitions, giving me a peek into all of their vulnerabilities and secrets, while I stayed perfectly clothed, shielded from their inquisitive eyes. Sneaky, I am aware, but I couldn't help it. If all men have a vice, then let this be mine.

My hand automatically went to the arse cheek I had tortured to belatedly soothe it and evenly massage the blood back into it. I heard her sigh and shudder all over as she pushed back, trying to lean into it as much as she could.

“Your hands are rough. Are you working in construction?”, she asked in a quiet voice, but still chirpy and, as I assumed, ready to go again soon.

“No. I'm an artist”.

She hummed approvingly, “Woodwork? Sculptures? That kind of thing?”.

“No. Tattoos”.

“Oh, should've guessed. You got a lot of them. Got a studio?”.

“Yes, I do”.

“Wicked. Now I know who I'll visit in case I want one”.

I pulled out of her completely and flipped her over onto her back, laughing mostly to myself at the exciting way she said it, all ignorance and naivety. I tried to remind myself that it would be enough for tonight, these qualities, for on the right woman, even small nuisances were precious virtues.

I stretched on top of her, delighted that her legs gave way to accommodate my weight without request.

“You know who you'll visit, hm? I have to tell you though, I didn't bring you here to advertise my work”.

“Oh, I'm sure you didn't, but...”, she began, whilst her hands roamed over my ass to sneakily drag my pants down and snake underneath, where she could grab all she wanted, “... never the less, I was convinced”.

“Found the merchandise valuable?”, I teased, feeling her groping at me all the more, trying to fit me whole in those tiny palms of hers.

She laughed hard at that, her breasts shaking underneath me in pure delight. I've never believed myself to be this funny, but I suppose, under the light of everything we had just done, I was. I could be. Maybe she just wanted me to be.

“Oh, very much”, she informed, battering her eyelashes at me, as I was reaching down between us to test her waters for new adventures.

After all, the night was still young. It was I, who was getting older.

 

**. . .**

 

Arabella

 

 

I was finally home, embraced by the warmth and security of these four, large walls that boxed me in and shielded me from all things irrational and abnormal. From all things life, in general. Still, in the hall, I peeped inside the main space, where my living room was, only mildly pushing the door that separated the two areas. 

I was checking. I was always checking, for safe places are not at all safe if invaded. Frankly, I didn't know who in their right mind would invade this little attic, poor excuse of a luxury home, truthfully, but none the less I had to make sure. Just because this place had its quirks and lots of its rusty hinges weren't included in the estate agency brochure, that didn't mean it was impregnable by neither thieves nor... memories. Memories of him...

Funny how even the remembrance of him felt ten times more intrusive than the actual concept of having someone rob me of my belongings. Somewhat ludicrous, if I had any say in it...

Slinging my heavy bag off my shoulder and leaving it to land on the floor with a gentle thump, I bent over to take my pumps off, supporting my unbalanced weight by grabbing at the closest piece of furniture.

As soon as my bare feet made contact with the solid ground I gasped and for several minutes the pins and needles pricking my soles were so intense that I struggled to walk straight. Damned heels, always torturing us, poor women. Damned office dress code that demanded of us to put them on and pretend we didn't suffer throughout the day. Hours and hours of endless standing and we were obliged to smile and fake being utterly rested and industrious as ever.

I stumbled into the room, simultaneously, trying to shrug out of my clothes, which I immediately threw, with a passion, into the laundry basket, promising to myself that I would put them into the washing machine to have them spewed out clean and ready to be ironed by morning. None of that would happen now though, I could testify on that, especially not after returning home this late. 

Shift at the office, phone calls all day, setting up this meeting and that meeting, emailing that young writer who wished to be famous, editing a bunch of papers and then, as if God hadn't punished me enough, the sales department goes wild with news of that sixty year old guy's book and before I knew it, I was being invited to dinner at the very posh, very pristine 'Cocoon'. That was the name of the restaurant. I had only remembered it as I was walking back home. Such a ridiculous name...

Dragging my sore feet across my humble living room, I entered the bedroom and could barely focus my eyes on the object of my desire. Pyjama drawer, where all my nasty, none coloured soft and cuddly fabrics rested along with my comfortable large cotton panties, ideal after a big day full of work and incessant female chatter about this and that and the weather today and that hot guy from statistics who happened to look at them above the delicate skeleton of his glasses, oh that must surely mean something...

I did a quick job of getting rid of the panties, bra and flexible shoulder to waist brace that accompanied me throughout the day and got into the tenderer fabrics and lovingly soft nightwear that always made sleep smoother and easier to come. I promptly returned to the other room and slumped down on my couch, dragging my fluffy, velvety blanket up my body and over my head. At some point during the night, I would definitely start sweating like a hermit in the desert, but I couldn't be bothered with that just now. All I wanted was to feel the imminent warmth of my five months trusted companion and the loving hands of unconsciousness wrap me in their tight embrace.

_Hands_ , I sorely thought.  _Someone's hands, his hands, a stranger's hands on me. Rough hands, warm heart... warm heart..._

Despite the sudden rise of worry in me over the pending wish to get tattoed, I managed to tire myself enough with thoughts of mock positivity to get me to sleep that much faster. I wasn't one for counting sheep, but I supposed in my state of exhaustion, it wasn't completely necessary. My eyes started falling shut sooner than anticipated, questions like what could go so terribly wrong, beginning to dissipate into a low buzzing at the far back of my head. 

_Rough hands, warm heart._

And tomorrow would surely be better. 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


  
  


 

 


	3. Auditory Transcendence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning everyone. I know it's very early, but I had a horrible nightmare and I was roused from sleep all sweaty and scared and you know, with one foot on reality and one back on that dream. I couldn't go back to sleep, but perhaps I'll try again after posting this very lovely chapter. I started working on it last night and finished it now, fully edited and hot, ready for some constructive reading! It's not long because like I've mentioned this fic is gonna go out in small chapters. 
> 
> Now, a little linguistic bit of information that you might need. Arabella is cursing in this chapter and the curse she uses is 'faigh muin'. That is actually Scottish Gaelic (you'll get a bit of context as to her origins, her mum, dad, ect). According to GLOSBE Dictionary, 'faigh muin' means : "fuck''. I have researched into this and all sources indicate that that's the meaning of the phrase. I'm not bullshitting you. But, if any readers here are Scottish and beg to differ, please do. Let me know about other interpretations. I'm an English Language student so you get how your knowledge might be of benefit to me. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this story and for showing it some support! Have a good read! Next chapter, our characters meet.

Arabella

  
  


  
  


“Come on, come on, come on, just call...”, I chanted over my phone over and over again, trying to gather the courage to pick it up and dial the number I'd been given a couple of days ago.

“Come... on, you stupid cow, he won't bite you through the earpiece. Come on”, I chided myself, quite audibly too, like a proper crazy person.

I had no idea, no idea whatsoever why I couldn't do it in a flash, for it was, after all, a simple phone call to make an inquiry. Yet my hand was shaking so bad I thought it would soon be magically cut off from the rest of my arm and fall to the floor with a thump, still shaking terribly. Like a snake's head after decapitation. I knew I was never one for talking on the phone, especially to absolute strangers, but this time things were a tad more serious than that.

In my mind, during this rainy morning in the rainy city of rainy London, two possibilities danced around each other, stamping their feet on the floor, causing me a massive headache. Firstly, what if he was still asleep or already at work, indisposed, not able to talk on the phone because he was with a client? It would make sense if he was still in bed as well, it was eight after all and it would also not have surprised me if he was at work at this exact time, piercing some poor guy's skin since I knew, and had double checked, that the establishment he worked in was one of the most popular in all of London. Secondly, what if I did call and he picked up, listened to my yapping and recognised neither me nor my situation and hung up before I had more time to explain who I was and what I wanted? It would be understandable since, generally, I'm not a big talker. Reading and editing words? Yes, can do. Speak them? Not so much.

It didn't always use to be so, but it is the state of things now.

“Faigh muin, come... _on_ , McArthur. Your da' would've be ashamed”, I cursed, rubbing into my eyelids with the pads of my thumb and forefinger. The exhaustion this overthinking sickness of mine bore on me was... _exhausting_.

I was at my last step before ultimate desperation and abortion of my mission. For me to reach that state didn't take a lot anymore, but I was using my dad's favourite swear words. That immediately took the situation to a whole other level of misery. If my French, well-bred, ballet and piano lessons mother was to hear me right that moment she would have exclaimed loudly what a naughty little girl I was in her adoringly broken English and would have advanced towards me, intent on tackling me to the floor for a tickling match. She had picked that up from dad.

Eventually, after ten wasted minutes and a lot of internal, and external, moaning and groaning I picked up my phone in the speed of lightning, dialled the number and prayed to all the Gods listening not to faint or puke.

Pacing around my small living room, occasionally darting my eyes out the window to see if the rain was still in full swing, I heard the line beep steadily once, twice, thrice and then...

I stopped dead in my tracks, my breath lightly catching in my throat at the deep sound that assaulted my ear.

“Hello?”.

My lips parted slowly because my brain had already acknowledged I was supposed to say something, but no matter how much I tried I couldn't remember what it was...

“Hello?”, the groggy, male voice repeated...

  
  


**. . .**

  
  


Tom

  
  


  
  


“Hello?”, I repeated groggily as I slowly rose from a... rather comfortable, spread out position.

I was sitting up, awake and mildly disturbed because of it, rubbing the backs of my knuckles against my eyes whilst waiting for a response from the curious stranger.

No answer came through and the only verbal response I'd gotten out of them so far, whoever _they_ were, was a steady yet rapid symphony of shallow breaths. Strangely, for some reason beyond the rationality of my eight in the morning head, I seemed to tune into the repetitive sound, for so peaceful it was to listen to, that I was almost being calmed back to sleep. But for the uneasiness in my gut to know the identity of the stranger I would have definitely closed my eyes again.

“Who is this?”, I pressed calmly, hoping that this time they would reply. And reply they did.

“Hi... Hello, sorry, hi. I... I'm sorry to keep you waiting...”.

My heart sunk down to my stomach and my stomach sunk down to my belly and it wasn't because I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. That voice, that tiny, almost choked with sadness voice. I knew it. I would recognise it as fast as I would recognise my own if I was to hear it recorded.

“Arabella, isn't it?”, I guessed, but it was only an introduction. I already knew I was right about the name, “You called a couple of days ago at the studio to book an appointment”.

There was quiet for a moment but to me, it seemed so long that I was beginning to second guess my assuredness over the specifics of the call.

“Ye- yes. Yeah. That's me”, she confirmed and from the tremor in her tone, I deduced she was quite nervous. Why, I didn't know, but my instincts told me to get her out of the difficult predicament of having to talk too much. Something... I don't know, notified me, I suppose that she didn't much like that, “Is this... is this Tom?”.

“Yes, the same”, I rushed to assure.

“Right”. 

“Did you get the email with the designs attached? Did you have any questions?”, I threw a couple of alternatives, to see if any could be the case. 

“Yes... yes, I got it and... ahm... I”, and there she stopped again. 

“Any particular design you liked?”, I continued for her, swinging my legs off the bed to get up. It was about time. 

And what a little surprise I discovered as I stretched my muscles, trying to expel the uncomfortable feeling of stiffness. I didn't get rid of it from all the places in my body though, a fact that amused me as much as perplexed me. What was so arousing in that woman's voice? And to think that I hadn't even seen her face, had never met her or even exchanged a glance with her. 

I moved towards the window, pulling the blinds just a bit to let the moody light of the barely there sun hit me straight on the face. Maybe then I'd see reason, maybe I would stop being so sleepy and maybe... maybe I would get even remotely distracted from the little siren singing in my ear, rousing such great desire in me all over again. Desire I had extensively tried to sate last night. Desire I had no idea I held because of... voices, apparently. 

“They were all beautiful, but... I have decided on... on number three, the 400£ one”. 

“Three? Hold on. Let me get to my laptop”. 

I left the window and walked over to the living room, where my study desk was, and balancing the phone between my cheek and shoulder searched a bit through my files until I found the design she was talking about. 

“Ah. You've chosen my favourite”, I exclaimed, for indeed she had picked out one of my best works from the animal and nature category. 

If my memory served me right I had drawn this back in my third year of Art School and had added to it barely two years ago. Now the reasons I was so attached to it, well, that's a story for another time.

“Ahm, can I... can I ask something about it?”, I heard her say, a bit more composed now than at the beginning of the call. 

“Absolutely”. 

She took a deep breath and fetched a sigh, as if she wasn't too determined on speaking her mind, “Is there... a possibility... could you... make it a bit... smaller? Because... it's, it's too big for my... my rib. My... my middle is small and so are... my ribs. I don't think it's going to fit”. 

I smiled an almost boyish smile that if I saw reflected on a mirror, I wouldn't recognise on my face. Just like it had happened at the studio, I pictured tensely, but not too sharply structured cheeks blushing pink, but this time with the sweet addition of a lip caught between teeth. 

Shrugging lightly I replied, “Of course, girl. Whatever suits you best”. 

She breathed out quite audibly and I instantly knew she'd been holding her breath. 

“Thanks”, was all she said and her voice held some type of almost apologetic vibe that didn't sit well with me. A couple of seconds later she added in the same tone, “I have... I have another question, ahm...”. 

“Tell me”, I urged her immediately. In the end what exactly did she think I'd do to her for asking questions? I was her artist, she my client, she was entitled to as many as she wished, especially since her experience with tattoos was going, to begin with me. Somehow, I found it difficult to understand how she couldn't see that... 

I straightened again, scratched my beard and chanced to look down at my bare feet. The hard on was... still on as it appeared, undetained, unyielding, unredeemed. And to my great shock, it jumped into further attention and sensitivity when she spoke again. 

“It's... it's going to be just... just the two of us, right? I mean... no apprentices or anyone else. Right?”.

There it was again. The sinking of my vital organs, one on top of the other, and that twisting in my gut alarming me that something was completely off. The last word from her lips came out broken and I couldn't help but entertain the possibility that there was more to her story, more behind the design she wanted on her body and more behind the lack of confidence in her own voice. Maybe I was reading too much into it, but call it a curse or a blessing, it was a skill of mine to see into these things. 

“Just the two of us, girl. No one else”. 

She took a deep, relieved breath and sniffed lightly. Her exhale was laced with tremor and again my nether regions reacted annoyingly for which I felt most guilty and had to press my lips together in sheer frustration at myself. But on the other hand, I couldn't help it. There was something about breath or  _her_ breath for that matter, that excited me...

“Okay... so... ahm... Friday, 5:30”. 

Jolting my head up and thankfully remembering my manners, I said, “I'll be expecting you, little swallow”, and before I had the chance to add anything spicier to the closure of this very unexpected call, she hung up and all I was left with was the annoying beeping of the line. 

I grinned, not knowing why exactly, and set my phone down on the desk. 

As much as I would want to crawl back into bed and sleep, I had to behave responsibly and go open the studio before my two trusted employs arrived. I'll be damned, the thought of that actually made me groan in frustration. Me, who was so engrossed in my work that I could go on for hours without exchanging not a single word with other human beings around me. Except for my sketches. I did talk to my sketches a lot, either when I was drawing them or pressing them deeply into someone's skin. Not weird at all. 

_What is it with her? Why so scared?_

Lazily pacing back into the bedroom to get dressed I was met with a wrecked bed and the smell of mischief and ultimate, wet chaos. I slumped against the door frame with my arms over my chest, my eyes briefly darting down to the used condoms on the floor before they ascended to the actual mess that was the bed. My beautiful, soft sheets were wrinkled, the duvet pulled down and half hanging off the bed while the blue velvet blanket I often used instead of actual covers was haphazardly positioned in the middle of the bed, where I lay for most of the night. And as anticipated, the ethereal female presence that had slept by my side was good and gone. 

_Arabella... that's a strange name..._

_ Arabella... _

I sighed, half of my brain, the rational and serious part that was, teasing the more romantic one, making fun of it because deep down that part had thought, had entertained the weak possibility that the blonde from last night would have at least stayed for breakfast. 

  
  


**. . . **

  
  


Arabella

  
  


  
  


I ended the phone call much too abruptly, of which I was not proud at all, but I couldn't help it. If I hadn't pushed that 'end call' button I would have gasped so loudly and would have surely passed the wrong message. 

I brought my hands up and hid my face in my palms, groaning in utter disappointment at myself as well as... what was this? Frustration? Frustration over what exactly? 

_His voice_ ... Heavens, his voice.

_Don't be stupid. Voices over the phone are very different than reality_ . 

No. No, that voice was different in many levels of reality, at least the realities I knew about. 

I dragged one of my hands down to my mouth, my eyes going over random objects in my close vicinity. 

It was composed by a set of the deepest, most mellifluous vibrations I had ever heard. Deaf people, who read lips, can definitely testify that voices like these emit a sort of visible depth that can almost touch you as you listen. That was what had just happened to me, I suppose. I was touched. And to think that throughout these two days I had been so worried about his hands touching me. I hadn't really counted on his voice skimming over my skin, raising goosebumps everywhere. 

I closed my eyes and took as many deep breaths as I could, trying to kick the anxiety of the phone call out of my body, when suddenly, mellow guitars started playing in the dead ballroom of my mind. 

_That voice_ ... That... Tom's voice was doing things to me that it shouldn't.

It was like the languid tempo of a jazz song that you just can't get over. A piece of music that you can't resist to sing when it comes up on some old radio station. 

He called me 'little swallow'. Me. Why would he give a darling name like that to a stranger? To a client? To... me, basically? What have I ever done for him to deserve such attention? But maybe it wasn't attention at all. Maybe it was playful dismissal. I was going to see him only once in my lifetime and in that period when we'd share the same air he would be absorbed in his work. His work upon my body. My skin. His hands. Did he not have every right to play and tease, as all men do? Did that not entitle him to call me 'girl' or 'little swallow', the words dripping from his tongue right into my ear like honey drips from a teaspoon? He didn't. But this is the world we live in. The world I have learnt to live in. 

And just like that my initial fascination with that man's voice, a circumstance I haven't found myself in a while, a feeling I hadn't felt in so long, a sensation which consumed me so utterly, turned into actual dread of the hour I would meet him face to face. A few minutes ago, his voice was God himself, now I felt my guts churning for I interpreted it as an indicator of his potential exterior and behaviour. 

What if he carried himself roguishly and ungracefully? What if he took absolute freedom with me in those five hours that I would be under his care? How can five hours of steady, piercing pain be spent under the hands of such a man? What if he was as I imagined him? What if I felt uncomfortable? What if he didn't like me? What if- wait, what? 

I shook my head fervently as a means of recomposing myself and my distracted train of thought. Why would I think that? 

_Rough hands_ ,  _warm heart_ , I reminded myself. But how could I find the tiniest shard of solace in that notion when the voice of the very man sounded as rough as his hands were supposed to be? And why, if so shocked and scared I was, did I shiver so delightfully at the prospect of listening to him again? 

 


	4. Anticipation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's been a long time, hasn't it? I apologise for giving you no content for so many days, especially on Inked which is still so small and pure (well not so pure, but you get what I mean). I present to you: chapter 4.
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore the rights belong to their respective owners. There is only one featured today and frankly, I just included it so that you can check out Arabella's very simple, very casual (yet with a smidge of chic), very light coloured (in this case) style. In the chapters to come, I will be featuring her office attire as well.
> 
> The last bit is the first few lines from William Blake's 'Auguries of Innocence' (just to give proper credit) and the quote 'we loved with a love that was more than love' is by Edgar Alan Poe. 
> 
> Thank you so much for waiting this long. In the next chapter, tattoos, bits and pieces from a very difficult past, tears and beards. Enjoy!

**Arabella**

  
  


  
  


I was walking down a beautiful street, somewhere in North London, silently going back to all the things that happened at work that day. I know I probably shouldn't but those things were scratching at the back of my head, making me wish I could just go to sleep and forget, for a few moments, that they even happened. Like little mice they squeaked and jumped inside me until all I wanted to do was stop walking, sit down on the pavement, have a good hard cry and then go back home and shut myself in my little box of comfort under my safety blanket.

The aristocratic view of the street, the tall white and greyish buildings with their elaborate entrances and the vibrant green of the trees at the park ahead of me did nothing to exorcise that feeling of longing I harboured for my velvet blanket and its soothing effect on my cold skin. The refreshing drizzle of the afternoon and the light chills of the dancing wind around me were not enough to tame neither my agitation nor my anticipation of both what had happened and what was about to commence the minute I'd reach the studio.

Why did this day have to start with such annoyance and complete lack of understanding by people who don't have a fucking clue? I mean, no one obviously knows what happened five months ago, for that is how I like it, therefore the concept of them understanding my situation is delusional, but still... I'm always expecting too much of everyone but unfortunately, 'expectation is the root of all heartache', as the great playwright claims. Why do I even bother...

Many times in this story you'll find me wondering if this narrative even has a purpose... Anyway.

My morning started with a board meeting, which was basically compounded by us little editors and our asshole supervisor and obviously, superior, or so he likes to think. The subject of our meeting was some chap who, like all young ambitious people, wanted to publish a collection of his poems under a catchy title that didn't catch _my_ attention, at least. Goes by the name of Justin Brooks, nothing wrong with that. I've seen some of his work, in all honesty, it's not that bad. Googled him and oh, how delightful, he has a poetry account on Instagram because apparently, having a blue tick beside your name makes you famous. Nothing alarming in the whole deal so far though except that I had to sit for over an hour in my tiny uncomfortable chair amongst all the other, highly antagonistic and at times offensive looking editors, who are older than me, more experienced than me, perhaps even better than me in what they do, and listen to the asshole lament and praise and basically chant in rhymes and verses in his screeching, still boyish voice about how good this Mr Brooks is with the pen and paper. But let us leave this difficulty aside. Even bringing to mind that man's voice makes me want to sit down on that pavement all the more.

“Mr Brooks, or Justin as he likes me to call him-”, and here appears the lecherous grin of the supposedly overachieving asshole all over his more than a corpse's, pale face, “- is in need of an editor to take a look at his work and engage in polite conversation, exchange ideas, and the like. He is open to constructive criticism and actually wishes for it, as he has multiple times confided in me.”

At the mention of that, there was a stir, a slight indication of movement almost by each and every one of the other editors sitting around the table. Simmons, a broad, elderly man, who I knew secretly believed he was far greater than all of us because of his age, leant forward and put an elbow on the glass table as he brought his greyish face forward, feigning great interest. Danvers, who was sitting right across from me, swung her chair a bit on the left and squinted seductively at the asshole. As she did so, her hand moved to her lap where she lifted only just a tiny bit, her tight pencil skirt to get more comfortable. Or so it seemed to everyone who happened to be watching. Well, the truth is, the asshole immediately picked up the deliberate action and grinned again, though this time it was addressed only to her. From that, you may deduce that, _yes_. I know they see each other, every Monday and Wednesday on the second floor, during break hours in one of the offices that's not used anymore. Apparently, the asshole is quite the catch.

I haven't mentioned his name at all, have I? Well, it's Dick. How appropriate, right? Dick Mathews. But all his friends and I suppose, Danvers as well, call him Dicky. God, there is a certain dirty playfulness about that nickname that makes me want to vomit.

Even the molecules in the air around me changed as all the hungry eager editors started to breathe a little bit faster in anticipation of the decision. Who was going to be the chosen one? The one to collaborate with such a renowned artist? This successful postmodern spirit of the time that had over one million followers on Instagram?

“McArthur”, the asshole heaved a sigh as he called me, the slightest bit of questioning coating his voice.

I sat upright in my chair, quickly exchanging my usual slouching with a stance that struck as perhaps more professional. I watched him lean over the table supporting himself on the palms of his hands. When he directed his gaze at me, a frigid cold, blue gaze, full of playful doubt and disbelief, I immediately knew what this was about.

“Brooks has asked for you specifically”, the asshole mouthed, eyebrows shooting up to meet his hairline.

Danvers cleared her throat. Simmons huffed. Some other guy, whose name I can never remember remained completely silent.

“He took a close look at your CV, said he researched the work you've done so far and was very pleased. And he also kind of hinted that your mixed origins, generally your...”, here he paused for the sake of flashing an indignant smile at me, “... European vibe would help him a lot to gain a more universal perspective, which he really wants to incorporate in his writing”.

I blinked in pure surprise at the comment, not really sure if this was an indirect insult from the asshole or a direct compliment from Brooks. I took a deep breath and awkwardly fixed the ends of my sleeves around my wrists.

“Okay”, I nodded.

But I'm forced to assume the honourable Mr Mathews didn't much like my response for he shot me a glare of pure mockery, wrinkles forming around his eyes, and straightened his spine, instantly appearing much taller. People often do that when they want to look superior. In control...

“Okay?”, he repeated and after a short huff and a dismissive shrug, added, “Always so passive McArthur, aren't you? It's not like you just got a great shot or anything”.

To tell you the truth, I stiffened in my seat. It wasn't the comment itself though that had that effect on me, nor the fact that this man actually had the audacity to abuse his authority and behave with such mockery to a colleague. I stiffened in my seat, haunched my shoulders and dismissed the intrusiveness of the words with a fake, toothless smile because they were true. My passivity was distinct. My lack of interest in collaborating with someone that had made some sort of success and could potentially promote me as a professional to other writers and poets was actually very present, witnessed by all. I just didn't care. But you would think... what kind of behaviour is that from an aspiring young editor? Don't I want to be better than I am in what I do? Don't I want connections? Don't I want credit for my work? To be appreciated? To be known?

No, I didn't. I don't. And the truth of it momentarily made me question what the fuck I was doing in a boardroom filled with highly power hungry people who would step over corpses to have their name printed on the second page of a book under the 'edited by' phrase. What was I doing here if I wasn't willing to show enthusiasm about my work?

I pondered over that for the rest of the meeting and later on, when we dispersed and everyone went to their secluded offices to do work. I paced like a zombie towards mine, by the large windows, and I tried as soon as possible to start collecting information on Brooks. After the meeting, I was sent all of his emails with the asshole and all the discussions they've had so I could get the idea of what this particular poet requested exactly. And no sooner had I started to do that, simultaneously struggling to ban all my thoughts on failed dreams and fucked up psychology than the asshole made his second appearance and this time what he chose to say cut deeper.

He approached me with the smug air of someone who is about to 'politely' chastise. Also, of someone who very much enjoys doing that in the first place.

I wanted to sit up from my chair and address him properly but he didn't give me the chance to lift even a finger. Reaching me, he leant against my desk, which wasn't really big, abruptly invading my personal space and, worst of all, forcing my line of sight to align with the very sigil of his so-called superiority. The very evident, very imposing strain of his pants. The fact that he crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at me disappointingly further strengthened my suspicions. Perhaps he didn't do it on purpose and this was just me always noticing the tiniest detail that could signal danger but still... Claiming that I was confident to act myself would be a lie.

“What's the matter with you?”, he accused, although he said it so eloquently and casually that it didn't much sound like an attack.

I swallowed and slid my chair back, trying to create some space between us. Having him this close to me disconcerted me to an extent where my head clouded and I couldn't speak.

“What... what do you mean?”.

“Oh, come on. Are we playing cat and mouse? I mean, what's wrong? Cause something must be wrong if you can't exhibit at least a bit of pride, a little bit of enthusiasm after getting such a chance”, he elaborated, the same grin from before appearing on his lips, “You basically nailed all the others down with getting that job, girl and all you can say is 'okay'?”.

I lowered my eyes to my notes in confusion, trying to search for the right answer to his statement but was unable too. I couldn't say anything without also confirming that he was right. Also... the way he called me... _girl_... I just... I didn't like it one bit...

“I'm sorry”.

“Don't need you to be sorry. I need you to up your game and show professionalism. Mediocracy in this profession, timidity and humbleness are suicide so don't do it or the others will eat you, girl”.

There it was again. _Girl_. Then he proceeded talking about something else but I wasn't really listening. My eyes were stuck on my notes and occasionally they would hastily peer up to check the movements of his pelvis. Was he leaning further towards me? Was he grinding? Was he indicating anything in any way? Was I in danger? It was preposterous, I knew it, but I kept checking anyway.

Then his tone changed and that drew me away from the attention I was paying to his body language. His voice became softer but to my ears, it was still screechy and immature and yet distinctly it had changed.

When he spoke again his words were whispers as if what he was saying was only for our ears, “Look, I know you had a rough time over the last months. Divorce is not an easy thing. I should know. I've gone through it twice. And you've been away on leave for quite a long time so I understand that maybe you've lost your touch but please... please, just try to get yourself back on track. Lack of enthusiasm in this job is bad promotion, alright?”.

After the mention of my divorce, all I wanted was for him to leave. Just leave. And I found no other way of making him do that other than agreeing to his point.

“Yes, of course”, I said and nodded decisively, in spite of the fact that inside I was burning with the need to cry.

When he finally left me alone I felt like I could breathe again. It was as if now that he had gone away all the electricity that surrounded him and scorched the oxygen around us had gone with him and had given me the chance to live again without the unnecessary toxicity.

My divorce? Who gave him the right to bring up that personal matter of my life? Who gave him the right to assume that it was because of my divorce that I was behaving so frigidly, so distantly? Divorce. It hadn't even been a divorce. It was something much bigger than that. Something that was capable of concealing integrities from public inspection but something that also left the greatest wound deep inside of me. Divorce. Mr, Mathews can talk about divorce as much as he wants but I am not entitled to use the same term...

Stressed and full of doubts that I didn't need, I went home and changed quickly into something comfier, shoved two crackers in my mouth and off I was again for the tattoo studio.

I was so tired already from overthinking and walking that when I reached Margaret Street and saw the establishment at the corner, small in width but high, for it had another floor as well, I sighed in actual contentment. The simple sign at the front, stationed in perfect geometry between the ground and the first floor offered me the greatest of reliefs even though I was, on top of everything, anxious about the tattoo as well. Or rather not about the tattoo but about its artist.

Call it normal, call it illogical, laugh at me if you must but trust me when I say that the very remembrance of that man's voice over the phone made me shiver even now that I was so close to getting what I so much wanted. And yet, in spite of all my anxiety, in spite of the newness of the crazy thing I was about to do, in spite of the foulness of my mood, one simple phrase was singled out in my head and questioned in the extreme.

 _Rough hands, warm heart_.

Was I about to have that experience? Or were those just words of encouragement from a stranger on the other end of the line? How could this unknown man's hands be rough and yet his heart warm? This was what troubled me above all else. Who was he? Did his voice compliment his appearance? Was I obsessing over this too much? How did he treat skin since skin was his canvas? And then that question, as I stared at the front entrance of the studio, led to another question, a question voiced with absolute certainty.

How much would I suffer before he was done? Because let's face it. When in an intimate situation with somebody it's not just difficult to cope without them knowing your history. It's impossible.

Right?

  
  


**. . .**

  
  


**Tom**

  
  


  
  


I was pacing about the private room on the first floor, rearranging stuff, getting my equipment ready, drawing down the blinds, turning up the heating so that the space would warm up by the time she arrived.

I stopped for a bit. _Arabella_... Why did her name make me  σο nostalgic? What was so special about it? No. It wasn't the name. It was the voice that accompanied it and the potential ethereal beauty that complimented it. How did I know any of these facts? I didn't. I just listened and assumed.

Suddenly remembering that I had to have a glass and a water bottle by the convertible bed because skin needs constant hydration from within, I started walking again, this time towards the mini fridge by the door. I got what I wanted and quickly settled it on top of a high stool a few steps away from where my inks, needles, surgical gloves and all that wicked looking stuff of mine were situated.

Swallow. Outline needles. No colour at all, just pure black. Then shading needles. Oh, a lot of shading work in this particular design. A lot of pain too but that factor is always dependent on skin type, tolerance and patience, therefore, I couldn't judge without having even started the actual piercing yet.

 _Little swallow_. My hands ceased moving for a while. I raised my head and stared straight ahead at the navy wall in front of me. I smiled to myself as if I knew some great secret that I was tempted to tell everyone but wasn't supposed to. As if I had a little shocking revealing planned for the most inappropriate time for the sake of causing a little chaos. Why had I called her that? She had sounded so timid over the phone. Perhaps I just wanted to lift her spirits. _No_. I wanted to unsettle her. I needed to although the reasons why were a mystery to me.

And still I sat there with a stupid yet contemplative grin stretched across my jaw, gazing at the monochrome wall, thinking of how it reminded me of the sea, of aristocracy, of beautiful eyes and dreams, having absolutely no idea what that little swallow that was about to fly into the studio any minute now, would come to mean to me for the rest of my life...

  
  


**. . .**

  
  


**Arabella**

  
  


  
  


I pushed the heavy glass door and went in, my heart beating so loudly that I was able to discern a distinct ringing in my ears. I tried to ignore it as much as I could and cautiously approached the desk at the front, where a man was shuffling through what looked to be papers with strange designs on them. He looked a bit pissed, -maybe he couldn't find what he was looking for-, so I made it my point to have at least ten steps distance between us. Besides, he really appeared to be the hardcore metal head type of guy, if the piercings, ear stretchings, leathers and numerous tattoos offered any indication at all. I'm not biased or anything. It's just that in my opinion he really looked the part.

A small voice, disguised in mock innocence and clandestine deviance hissed in my ear _if that's Tom get the fuck out of here_ , but I shook my head and cleared my throat as a means of getting his attention.

The man looked up from his papers and furrowing his brows, allowed his eyes to do a quick inquisitive roam up and down my very much haunched and baggy clothed figure.

“Lost your way?”, he asked then, his accent definitely American therefore not Tom's.

My eyes darted away from him. I shook my head no and managed to fake a faint little smile.

“No. Actually... I'm... I'm here cause I've got an appointment with... Tom. 5:30?”, I stuttered, a little bit unsure that I was in the right place.

Do you ever get that feeling that you're actually in the wrong place? Or that you have come to a meeting on the wrong day? Or that you accidentally postponed something but you showed up for it anyway? That was how I was starting to feel now. Misplaced and disoriented.

“Name?”, the tattooed man asked.

“It's...”, my throat had gone dry so I cleared it again, tugging at the edges of my sleeves, trying to cover my exposed knuckles for whatever reason, “... McArthur. Arabella”.

He hummed with interest, nodding. Then he went to another desk, a round one at the far back of the shop, to retrieve a tablet. He came back with it, typed something and hummed again.

“The swallow...”, he acknowledged as if the design I desired was tightly linked to my identity. For a brief moment I wondered if the other guy, Tom, had actually used the strange nickname in the company of others as well but even if he had, I decided not to care.

And just like that, out of the blue-

“TOMMY”, the man shouted rudely making me flinch from the suddenness of it all. In a lighter, but still boisterous tone, he added, “Won't you come down for a second”.

I heard light footfalls coming down a spiralling metal staircase that I could sort of spot out at the far back. The moment jean-clad legs and grey suede shoes made their appearance I politely, 'politely' as in terrifyingly embarrassed when it comes to greeting people properly, averted my eyes and focused on a random spot at the wooden floor, feigning interest as to how beautiful the light straw coloured material was and how perfectly polished.

It was only when I heard the heavily tattooed man pulling stupid jokes on my person that my attention was diverted back to the two physical presences in the room.

When the rushed footsteps turned into a lazy pace, the man said, “Girl here to see you. Says you knocked her up, you naughty boy”.

Terribly confused and with a mortified red expression all over my face, I raised my head abruptly to look at him, my lips already parted to plead my case. I didn't really understand why it seemed so important at that moment to prove a stupid joke wrong but as it appeared, I was tired, overworked and definitely done with receiving whatever kind of manly attack for the day. The asshole had been more than enough already...

Before I had the chance to speak though, -and what foolishness I would have said-, a devilish, resounding, earth shuttering, echoy and... and... and... I don't know what else, laughter reached my ears. For all its intensity, it was the calmest sound I had ever heard. Like the discreet addition of flowers in a very small space. Or the light undertone of spices in a very soothing and relaxing candle scent...

“Ignore him. We let him believe he's funny”, another voice said. And it was the voice from the phone.

The honey.

The jazz age.

The guitar.

I lowered my head and settled for looking at him a bit sideways because you can't possibly look straight into the eye of the sun and not be blinded by its brightness.

I know you're all probably sitting there, in the dark, thinking that I definitely liked him. That I fell in love in an instant when that bearded mouth twisted into the widest, kindest smile I had ever seen on the lips of men. I know you're thinking that my heart began to pound in rebellion. That that ridiculous, naked baby angel sensed this and shot an arrow that expertly penetrated both me and him. You must be thinking something of Shakespeare or something of Poe. You must be thinking that 'we loved with a love that was more than love'. I know that that little quote speaks to you. Touches you. I know you'd like to believe that we held each other's gaze and all went still around us. It didn't. I would advise reigning in your young and raging minds. Because I'll provide you with what actually happened. For me and Tom, no matter how strange it might sound, no matter how much sense it makes to you right now, so early in the story, it went down like this...

 

_To see a World in a Grain of Sand_

_And a Heaven in a Wild Flower_

_Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand_

_And Eternity in an hour..._

 


	5. Sublime Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening everyone! Almost 19:00 here in the gloomy UK. How are you all doing? Christmas is around the corner and I can't wait to return to my home country to be with family for a little while. I hope you all have great plans for the holidays as well, hehe. So, may I present to you chapter 5, a chapter filled with angst, painful memories and a certain man's beautiful hands, wink wink!
> 
> This chapter is told only by Arabella's point of view but in the next one I'm planning on describing the exact same events but through Tom's eyes. So hang in there for that as well.
> 
> Another small reminder, the process of tattooing described in this chapter has been thoroughly researched and also experienced by me as well since I have two lovely quotes. No part of the procedure has been made up. It's all legit. 
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore, their rights belong to their respective owners. You will find the content in this chapter pretty self-explanatory. Sorry for bothering you with the actual picture of... him... (I know it makes a lot of people cringe when there are photos of the actual people in the fics) BUT I had a really hard time describing facial expression in this one and wanted to have some visual background to support my efforts. 
> 
> Thank you for liking and reading this story! Next up, like I already mentioned, Tom is giving his own account on the events of Friday night! Until then, take care...

**Arabella**

  
  


 

“Alright, Tommy. Everything in order for tomorrow. Want me to do anything else before I head off?”, the tattoed man, still with no name to match the visage, said.

I was keeping my eyes down, not wanting to draw attention upon my person in any imaginable way, but I nonetheless caught some movement from the other one. From the one whose eyes burned bright and resembled the sparkling sea on a sunlit morning somewhere where there's no stressful reality or dangerous interaction. From my reserved position, -in my mind's eye it was somewhere up on the steep windy rocks of today-, I saw him, I saw the sea coming towards me, fluid, elastic and regal. I wanted to draw back. However, I stayed frozen on my spot, clutching at the edges of my sleeves as if they were little anchors that would keep me on shore.

“No, Jer. Go home”, the sea decided and maybe shook its head. I couldn't take a closer look for I desired it too much and when you want something too much it's best to do nothing.

“Right. See you tomorrow then”, Jer greeted and passing by me, disappeared.

And there we were. Alone. _Completely alone_. Just as he had promised. To be honest I had only anticipated the privacy of a secluded room with a curtain drawn to hide us. The concept of getting rid of... _everyone_ hadn't really crossed my mind.

I was debating with myself if I should start panicking over that fact but before my pulse began to pound too loudly and my eyes shine with tears, the sea addressed me. It was a sound as calm as the silence in a cave and as vibrating as a bass in full swing, the foregrounding of such a contrast so strong that my attention was intrigued despite my wishes.

“Are you sure about this?”.

I tucked some strands of hair behind my ears and stealing a little peek at him, purely in terms of not appearing rude, nodded twice.

“Good. Come along then, little swallow”, he gestured for me to follow him, a playful laughter lingering in his tone, “The room is upstairs”.

His strides were long and calculated and even though I was tall myself I couldn't keep up with him or his chirpiness for that matter. So much happiness in a single sentence. It was like each word coming out of his mouth was a full, living and breathing entity that smiled sweetly and laughed wholeheartedly.

We went up the metal staircase in silence. Then I was shown into the room he was referring to, where, in a flurry of motion and without my absolute focus, he closed the door, smiled at me, asked if he could take my small bag and jacket, took them from my hands while my brain followed the action in its own time, smiled at me again (for fuck's sake) and asked me to take a seat at the brown leather couch for a bit while he finalised the details on the stencil.

I sat down, cringing at the distinct squeak the couch made as it stretched, and tried to keep my eyes on the wooden floor, not even caring to take a look at the room itself, which, as I later on noticed was supremely stylish and carefully organised, almost in the extreme. No papers lying around, no sketches pinned on the perfect walls, no dishevelled furniture, no ink blotches everywhere. Essentially, nothing you would expect from an artist's den.

“Arabella...”, he whispered then and I swear to you, my breath kind of hitched in my throat.

He breathed the word out as if recollecting some memory that had been in his mind for years and years, the lopsided grin on his ginger blonde bearded mouth hiding a nostalgic sentiment that I couldn't justify. My lips parted in awe. I challenge every woman on earth not to feel kind of special when a man has their name on his lips like that, even a woman that's been-.

“You have a lovely name, girl”.

I raised my head to where he sat, across from me behind a medium sized desk, only to find out he was staring right at me. No. Let me correct this. He was _observing_ me. His expression was much too calm and gentle, his eyes intent on my figure but definitely not intrusive. And the same damn grin showed on his lips, lips that had just called me...

 _Girl._ That was the second time I'd been called that and yet I found myself wondering, why... Why does it sound... so different when he says it? It was an honest question, especially if you all consider I was about to vomit just a few moments ago whilst remembering the asshole calling me that. But in that instance... when... Tom said it... Did he have to be so handsome too? Well, at least _I_ was finding him handsome regardless of my wits warning me to stop all contact then and there.

I smiled at him in response but I'm not confident I meant it. I was too stressed to be sincere and as it seemed, I had lost my voice entirely. He didn't fail to notice.

“We talked on the phone not so long ago so I do know that you have a lovely voice as well. Could I hear it again, please?”, he requested and although you could possibly assume he was teasing, he wasn't.

He was deadly serious and didn't take his eyes off me until I did as he asked. Until I _obeyed_.

“Sorry”, was all I could think of saying at first and then I considered, why not excuse yourself, show you mean well, therefore I added, “Thank you. It's... it's just... I had a difficult day...”. _More like a difficult life_...

“Sorry to hear that”, and he _was_.

He regarded me with further interest now, his elegant brows furrowing deeper and deeper, his lips getting tighter and tighter, his eyes gleaming under the desktop lamp. In all my life I've never seen someone care that much. And nobody can fool me. His expression was genuinely concerned. And what had I just said? Merely that my day was challenging.

 _You don't even know me_...,  was the first rational thought in my mind.

“Work-related?”, he added, doing something to the design before he stood up.

When his eyes settled on me again I nodded in confirmation but other than that... silence and moderated eye contact. Men are often like bulls. Stare at them in the eye and they pounce. It was best not to challenge him in spite of the calm demeanour he showcased. 

His back was to me now because he had turned towards some kind of machine, working on it, or working the design in it, I couldn't really tell, because he was so tall, like a giant, and so lean and lithe like a deadly snake, a single muscle of pure strength. I didn't mean to but my gaze lingered on him, on those spectacular shoulder blades that, as his arms were at work, moved and swayed and flexed. The tight navy blue sweater he was wearing only amplified the supreme bone structure and the slenderness of his waist. It hugged him like a second skin. Overall, his figure wasn't imposing. I would say that 'agile' and almost 'elusive' to the imagination were better words. He wasn't built up like a bodyguard and yet he didn't have the immaturity and awkwardness of a boy. This... this, dear readers, was a _male_ and in spite of my current disposition where men are involved, I couldn't force back a longing sigh  at the sight, sound and later on, smell and feel of him around me. 

“Stencil's ready”, he announced, particularly stressing the r so that it playfully rolled off his tongue. I almost giggled. What human being is happy to be working at 5:40 in the afternoon for God's sake...

 _Why did you have to be this handsome?_ _Couldn't you have been some kind of punk head with so many piercings that a face is untraceable? Couldn't you have been bald and stupid?_ , I wondered again and would have been fine with wondering it still if he hadn't motioned for me to get up. He didn't even speak, only beckoned at me with his fingers in utter excitement. I gathered he must have been waiting a long time to get this on someone's body and he had mentioned over the phone that it was his favourite design as well...

I got up and went to him, measuring my footsteps accordingly so that there was still some distance between us. I couldn't get close to him even though some strange force was pulling me, pushing me, hitting me even to just fall into his arms and stay there, locked forever. Strike me down, even though I had left a considerable five steps space his delicious body heat was seductively reaching out to me, engulfing me, taking me in. He was a source of light for light shone in his gleaming blue eyes every time he talked to or observed me. He was energy, energy gathered in his softly wrinkled and wise skin, at the corners of his eyes, his forehead and arched brow. He was radiance for every time he smiled I felt electrocuted with kindness.

But I was afraid of him. I couldn't hide it.

“Haven't changed your mind, have you?”, he said, lowering and tilting his head to the side.

I nodded negatively and focused on the design in his hands.  _My swallow_ ... It looked stunning, so delicately sketched, so realistically free, not bold and boisterous at all. Simply elegant and with distinct enough lines. 

A sudden boldness urged my mind to compliment him on his skills but of course, at the last minute, I changed my reply to something vague and unassuming.

“It's beautiful”, I murmured, my voice so sheepish that at first, I thought he didn't hear me at all. But then he smiled with such kindness, his eyes smiling along with his mouth, and agreed.

“Let's proceed then.”

I nodded again, looking at everything around me but him.

“Can you take off your sweater, please?”.

My heart stopped.

“And if you're wearing an undershirt, I would advise to take that off as well. The tattoo gun makes the ink splash sometimes. I wouldn't want to ruin your clothes”.

I cast my eyes down to the floor, focusing on nowhere in particular. My fingers started to tighten around the fabric adorning my stomach as I considered, -oh, what a bloody fool-, for the first time that I would actually have to shed some clothes if I wanted this on me. Rib, I had said. Rib. And the work with the gun can get messy. How did I not consider this more carefully? _Lovely_.

My heart started again, pounding faster and faster by the second. Just a little bit more anticipation and I would have literally started to hear my own pulse beating underneath my skin. And then another fact hit me, which only made things worse.  _My scar_ , the one that would never heal...  _my spine supporting brace_ ...  _Me_ , the bruised and battered.

As if he had heard my disoriented and heavily insecure thoughts, or noticed my fidgeting hesitation he came closer, just a tiny bit, barely changing his balance from one foot to another, and lowered his voice considerably to address me.

“Arabella... May I call you that?”.

The question struck me as odd and out of context but I complied.

“Please, let any worry you might have aside”, he assured me, “There is no one here except for you and me, I promise. It's alright”.

Foolishly enough I raised my eyes to meet his. I don't know. I convinced myself I only wanted to stare at the blue and get lost in it. Like some drooling, immature wench that doesn't get any these days. I wanted to reduce my feelings to something like that. But in truth, I wanted to see something there. I wanted to understand why he would say such a thing even though he didn't know me or my history. I wanted to have an excuse for why he insisted in peering right through me, down to my very soul with those penetrating eyes and that faint smile of compassion ghosting over his barely than two straight lines mouth. He looked as if he knew. As if I had told him everything without realising it.

I took a deep shaky breath and like he said, pushed my worries aside and decided not to give this, this experience, this man, more credit than he deserved. He was nobody to me and I was nobody to him. I was a client about to get tattooed and nothing more than that. He cared neither for my psychology nor my body and... what it had come to look like over the past five months. It was none of his business. His job was to get his needles out, hurt me and get paid for it.

Therefore I paced a bit back towards the couch and gripped at the edges of my white cashmere sweater. I pulled it over my head, without even a glance at the warm presence of the man in the room and left it on the couch. I did the same with my undershirt, only slower and with more hesitation, my hands not as steady as before. And then I was left with my brace and the Calvin Klein sports bra. I unfastened my support and slid it off my shoulders, dropped it where everything else rested and turned towards him again, making sure that my timid gaze was glued to the floor. I was almost sure that his eyes were stuck on me, following my moves, tracing me, getting to know me in a way so unfamiliar to me. Almost. I didn't know at that point that like the perfect gentleman he was he had chosen to avert his eyes and grant me as much privacy as he probably knew I needed.

Standing in front of him with my hand locked on my elbow, I suppose in a futile attempt to hide the scar as best I could, wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. I managed to force my brain into numbness, my body into docileness, just a breathing puppet I succeeded in becoming for it was the best solution I could come up with. But my nerves... oh my nerves. I couldn't calm them down at all. I was finding it hard to breathe and my skin was already sweaty from the unbelievable mental exertion. Algos was what I was starting to feel rapidly developing in my stomach. A kind of anticipation that makes you want to double over and die. 

“Raise your arm for me, please.”

My guts churned at the commanding softness in his tone and it took all my power not to dissolve there and then, in front of him and make a fool of myself.

There was no denying it and it was about time for me to accept it. This man exuded authority. It was in the confident way he walked. In the air of blended superiority and humbleness that he carried himself in. In the way his eyes pierced through you but without being evasive or smug. He was definitely...  _male,_ I think I have already established that and grinned like he was the personification of mischief. He made sure not to crowd in on others but at the same time, he left an impression on you, yet not in an arrogant way. All those signs, which for me were absolutely easy to spot, led to one unquestionable fact. 

I had no idea men could be like that.

He was by my side now, trying to position the stencil correctly upon my skeleton-like ribcage. I had raised my arm, like he had told me to, and was trying to control my breathing so that my main body didn't puff up and down awkwardly, struggling to help him in a way, make this dragged out affair with me a little bit easier.

When he decided what was the best placement he pressed it onto my skin as gently as a feather would caress you but I was so trapped inside my own head, recounting everything that had taken place the last time a man was so close to me... that...

_Hiss and snap._

_Hiss and snap._

_Hiss and snap._

I flinched, almost jumped away like a wet cat, when I felt his hot palm on my side, pushing the design and making sure it had become one with my skin. 

He noticed.

He peered up at me but I looked away quickly. I didn't want him to establish that this simple thing had distressed me this much. For a minute, the thought that he had noticed the ugly scar stretching from my pelvis around my waist crossed my mind as a possible justification for his own distress. It was impossible, of course, to get so close to something like that and not flinch yourself.

But he said nothing about it. Didn't comment on it. Didn't even feign interest in knowing how I got it. For some reason, I had the disconcerting, spooky feeling that he already knew. He knew. But he was decent enough to keep it to himself.

“If you turn around there's a mirror”, were his next words, during the uttering of which I noticed a slight difference. He wasn't excited now. He was strictly composed, his voice made stern to match the severity of the situation. At least the severity I was attributing it, “Does the placement work for you? Do you perhaps want it a bit to the left, a bit to the right?”.

I turned around to inspect it in the mirror and almost shed my first tear of the day... There it was. My swallow. Almost part of my skin. It looked as if it belonged there or better as if I'd been born with it but never gave it the chance to fly out of my flesh and show on my skin.

“No...”, I told him, “It's right where it should be.”

I saw his magnanimous smile through the mirror. Like a child, he wasn't afraid to show his happiness and in that moment I felt like I was congratulating him on his school project. Like my affirmation that he had sketched it perfectly, placed it exquisitely meant everything to him. In truth, I _was_ congratulating him. But that's another story for another time.

“Hop on the bed, darling. Let's start”, he issued and went to sanitize hands and put on gloves.

I did as I was told without even thinking about it. I went over to the convertible bed and sat on it, waiting for my next command. It was amazing to describe how my mind had already begun to function in its own submissive way, as it did in pretty much everything I did. This was who I was but... apart from my beloved divorcee no one so far had managed to draw this hidden part out of me. No one had made me  _want_ to be good and obedient. Not even within the parental spectrum when I was still a little girl. It's funny to wonder how as children we riot and rebel but as adults, all we want is to be guided into surrender. 

He passed in front of me, tall and regal, like a lion with its head held high pridefully, to get to his equipment.  He drew a stool and a small table with wheels, artistic stuff all over it, I suppose. He left it by the bed, sat down, looked into my eyes and started speaking calmly, serenely, in a way, I daresay, I wasn't used to.

“So, let me give you an account of how this works so you don't get nervous on me”, he began, adjusting the tight gloves around his wrists without taking his eyes off me. I was so embarrassed at that moment, for no apparent reason, that I just looked down to my lap and kept silent.

“First, I'll wash this off and shave the skin just in case. Razor's disposable so don't worry”, then he lifted a small razor for me to inspect, “Most people have a light sheet of teeny tiny hairs all over their bodies but it's important to get rid of them to avoid infections. The machine is going to push ink inside your body but we can't let it push hair as well. That is how infections happen. After that, I'm just going to gently massage some antibacterial soap to further sanitize the chosen area. On the said area I'm then going to apply petroleum jelly, -I know it sounds like serious chemical stuff, but it's not, I can assure you-, and press the stencil again, exactly where you showed me”, he continued, showing me with his index all the implements and bottles and I don't know what, he was going to use.

“After that's out of our way, I'm going to do my magic with the ink cups. There is no colour in your design so multiple needles are not necessary, but when we get to the shading part I'm going to have to change them. The outline of the design must be done first and then I'll proceed in doing the filling and shading”. 

And then his tone changed from instructive to sweet, sweet tempered with that compassion that I was having a difficult time wrapping my mind around, “Meanwhile, I want you to breathe. Breathe and let your muscles relax as much as possible. Inhale through your nose, exhale the pain through your mouth. Close your eyes if you wish. There's no reason for you to look down at what I'm doing with the machine. It might stress you further. Alright, girl?”. 

_Girl_... On my life, that was the only bloody thing I heard. _Girl_ with the 'ir' strained so seductively, so poshly...

I nodded automatically, as I did a lot during our lengthy interaction and waited for him to call me _girl_ again. Needless to say, I was completely hooked to each and every characteristic of his articulation skills, no matter how strange that might sound.

“Good”, he nodded too, “Now, if you'd like to lay down on your side facing me. Like, in a sleeping position with your arm stretched above your head so that I have a clear view of your rib.”

I drew my knees up to my chest and set them up on the bed as well, extending them so that I covered the length of it, as you would normally do in an actual bed. Using my hands I lowered my body and tried to get as comfortable as I could. Stretching my arm was the most difficult part for me. I didn't like having my breast so exposed even if technically it was covered. Still, I felt vulnerable to an alarming degree and didn't know how best to process it. My frustration mixed with my anticipation and clouded my judgement up to a point where I didn't really know what I should do to calm down. He had said to breathe so I would and hope for the best.

Whilst being locked inside the hurricane of my confusion he had managed to finish with both the washing and the shaving without me noticing any of it. That was how lost I felt.

I only sensed him touching me at the same time as the smell of something pungent, alcoholic reached my nostrils. He had probably warmed the gel between his hands and was now spreading it all over my exposed rib making sure that I was covered sufficiently. As was natural for my case I jolted slightly upon first contact, my body tensing out of instinct. But then... the sensation altered. Even to this day, I cannot fully describe it but... I began to breathe normally. In and out, no half breaths or gasps but actual long breaths through the nose, out of the mouth like I had been so sweetly told to do. And as I did that his touch became bearable. The gentleness of his fingers skimming over my protruding bones was soothing and made me shiver. He rolled his stool closer to me and as he placed the stencil on my skin again and pulled it off after a bit his smell, his personal aroma invaded my senses and made me close my eyes in complete relaxation.

He smelled of black ink and fresh wool. Of leather and something woody. I supposed it must have been some of the ingredients of his cologne. And yet they blended with who he was, at least what I knew of him so far, and what he did for a living. He created art out of nothing but a thought, a visual illusion in his mind' s eye and then he was rewarded not in money, but in the delight of having his thoughts permanently imprinted on people's bodies because they wished it. Because they wanted it. Because they appreciated the way his mind worked and wanted a little bit of it on their skin. He smelled of wool and leather, yes. Of protection. Of heat and home. He smelled of nature and sketches on a paper, of freedom and philosophy.

Something started buzzing but I was too lost to determine what it was, and when the pain came I didn't feel it as strongly as I was supposed to. It was piercing, like a needle is when it pricks you. It was slicing my skin up as it was dragged along the outline of the swallow, yet in a very delicate sensual sort of way. I blush as I confess, it was almost pleasurable.

The buzzing stopped.

“How does that feel, little swallow?”.

I shook my head a bit and told him it was okay so he kept hurting me, creating a new wound upon my already mistreated vessel. I suppose... in a way... this was pleasurable because I _wanted_ to be hurt by him. I wanted him to mark me like this. Pierce me and help me switch my brain off for once and focus on what my body told me. And what it wanted, what it needed was to be treated gently. Softly. Or be treated not. The realisation that here I was, finally able to breathe, being hurt by someone so handsome and masculine and blonde and non-judgemental, a complete stranger who seemed to understand even though I did not give explanations shocked me as much as attributed to my new found tranquillity.

“You take it well, girl. I'm impressed. I've seen the toughest of men faint during rib tattoo procedures”, he praised and chuckled playfully as if the astonished child inside him shone through the virility of man.

What should I answer to that? That I had special training in enduring pain? Well, that would be a polite way of phrasing it, now wouldn't it?

“Merci”, I said instead, my French origins accidentally slipping through.

“So I was right about the European vibe in your accent”, he declared, more to himself than to me.

“What?”, I mumbled.

“The European vibe in your accent. Over the phone, the other day, you didn't sound entirely British to me”, he explained.

“Oh... yeah”.

“Where do you come from?”.

I took a slightly deeper breath and answered him, my articulation and sentences more structured and controlled than ever before, “My mum is French and my dad was Scottish. I've lived both in France and Edinburgh so I guess my accent is a mixture of the two”.

“Interesting mix. Did your dad fall head over hills for the Parisian elegance?”, he assumed teasingly.

A faint smile broke on my lips, “Actually... no. It was my mum that fell for that Highlander savageness”.

At that, he laughed wholeheartedly and added in a terrible Scottish accent, “Well, I reckon we wee ladies are har' tae resist.”

I couldn't help but giggle, something I hadn't done in ages.

“Are you...?”.

“From my dad's side. My mum is from London, hence the clearness and poshness of the accent”.

 _Well, that explains it_ , I thought bemused. The beauty comes from the lochs and creags and lore while the eloquence and gentility from a good-natured mother. The fact that she was from London was irrelevant.

I didn't know what else to say so I kept quiet, focusing on my breathing and getting off from the piercing pain in my core.

“Really good breathing, girl. Very nice”, he praised again, “I know you'll be so brave for the shading part too. It's said to be the most painful but I know you'll get through it just fine.”

All the funny things took place within me at the sound of the reverberating encouragement. I tightened my belly. I rubbed my thighs together. I sighed. I gave into the sensation deeper, stronger. I pressed my eyelids together and just like that, so naturally that it seemed unnatural, the first tear slid down my cheek and onto the leather bed. Life flowed through me, filling me up to the brim, pushing out all the stress of the day and all the pain from all those years of repeated torment. All the bruised parts inside me swelled with breath and began to slowly heal. Skin started to peel itself off leaving me bare and unprotected in front of a man whose qualities were foreign to me, whose gentle eyes touched me like warm water splashes upon the skin and makes a woman quiver. I wanted more of it. Of that sensation. Of his words. I wanted more of everything he was giving me already so generously.

A kind of mania developed inside me then, an infectious desire to get something I had convinced myself I could never have. Something that no one would give to me, ever, because this was how the world worked. This was how men worked. They took and destroyed and ruined everything soft and sensitive in their path and then left because it was convenient.

I choked back my sobs, one after the other, remaining silent as best as I could. I did not wish to phase him with my stupid reaction. For some reason, I didn't want him to think I was weak and couldn't take the pain for, consequently, that was what he would believe. He'd think I was crying because of the needle hitting me, a needle that _he_ yielded. He didn't deserve that kind of behaviour from me now. Not after he'd been so sweet and considerate. He didn't deserve a hormonal female sobbing for no apparent reason...

And yet I had a reason. A very serious, very sad reason...

I returned to focusing on my breathing believing that I could control myself, reign my emotions in and get through the situation with some dignity left. But... he touched me so softly as if I was made of glass and would break if he applied force. He was careful with me, attentive. He listened to my body reacting to the pain _he_ was inflicting and when he deemed that it was too much, he stopped and gave me time to gather myself even though I wasn't really feeling the impact as strongly as I had anticipated.

It moved me to even thicker tears for I had no idea... no idea it could be like this. That a woman can be like this with a man without receiving a raised eyebrow or an indignant sigh, or a slap across the face under the excuse that she was being too psychotic to put up with...

I didn't know how much time had passed with me being emersed in these thoughts but when I opened my eyes, he had his back to me and was probably preparing a different set of needles or pouring new ink into his cups, so I took my chance and let all my tears fall in utter silence. Thankfully, my face was hidden behind my outstretched arm and so I was covered sufficiently from view. By the time the tattoo would be done whatever drops had fallen from my eyes would have dried completely.

Or so I convinced myself.

He slid his stool back around and I quickly shut my eyes again and waited for the pain. Wished for the pain. _But the pain did not come_.

In its place tears sprung out of my eyes, tears I had not anticipated. Proper waterfalls of anxiety that was kept locked inside for far too long. At once my breathing ceased to hold a steady tempo and my ribcage, not able to withstand the force of my silent weeping, spasmed like the deprived body of a fish out of the water. _And the pain did not come_.

I didn't care that he was probably staring at me, lost and so confused as to what to do with that buzzing machine vibrating in his gloved hand. I didn't care about definitely making him uncomfortable. I couldn't stop myself from gasping and heaving and needing... something. That was how close to it I could come. That was the only way to describe this unnamed idea.

My knees twitched but I couldn't gather them up to my chest. I didn't have the strength to do it. _And the pain did not come_.

As I writhed in my lying position I heard nothing and saw nothing, had not a clue what he was doing. What the hell, maybe he was calling an ambulance or the nearest psychiatric ward to come and pick up the strange woman...

 _And the pain did not come._ It was softness I felt covering my naked skin and firmness that picked me up by the shoulders, gathering me against a place where all was warm and cushiony. There was strength around me as I was being tucked in that safe place and I could hear something in the background of it all. A light humming...

For a bit, I didn't know what was happening. My eyes were so tightly closed that in all the darkness I could only see myself weeping on the bed of a tattoo studio. But I wasn't there anymore.

I opened my teary and puffy eyes, from which the tears wouldn't stop falling and realised that I was in his arms, wrapped up in a massive, heated white towel that grazed my skin reassuringly. Big manly hands were skimming over my back, creating the perfect friction, showing me in the purest way possible that where suffering and compassion were involved there were no real boundaries between strangers. I went limp against the body of a stranger. I buried my shamed face in the hot, tattooed neck of a stranger. My hands came up on their own accord and clutched at the woollen sweater of a stranger like they clutched at life itself.

Because that was the something I needed all along, what I could not name. _Protection inside a pure embrace._

And that was the moment, the turning point in our story where my mind stopped perceiving him as _the stranger_ and began to list him as simply Tom. Tom, the man. Tom, the tattoo artist. Tom, with the 'rough' hands and the warm heart and later on, _my_ Tom...

I gripped him tighter and in response he grabbed me too, moulding me into him while making sure that the towel was positioned correctly so our skins wouldn't touch in any way that would drive me crazy with insecurity. He listened to my gasps attentively, allowed himself to be soaked in every time in every tear I shed and said nothing all the while. He didn't shush me. He didn't call me sweet things to manipulate me into stopping. He only held me close to his chest and rocked me tenderly as if knowing that his silence and my heaving were the key to everything. His body heat and my release the only solution.

His neck emanated all the more that leathery, woody smell and I had to practically force myself not to downright shove my nose into his crook and breathe it all in. He was hot and moist from my tears which only added saltiness to his complexion and enhanced the masculinity of his original body scent. It was soothing in a way and sooner than I had anticipated the tears stopped coming though my fingers stayed locked around the fabric on his chest, refusing to let go.

He didn't push me away once I was composed enough. He didn't tell me he needed to continue his work because he had to close the studio soon. He didn't turn cold and distant once the damsel in distress had quieted down. He kept holding me tightly, protectively, rubbing me through the towel in all the places that my spine ached, from the shoulders down to the tailbone until one hand came to rest where my scar curved around my waist.

I didn't flinch this time because his calm and controlled humming reached me, his beard scratched my cheek as he bent his head to find my ear and his breath on my naked skin made me melt so deliciously that my own body abandoned its need to put up defences.

And then with a single word, voiced as a statement, he undid it.

“Belt”.

He pressed his hand on my covered waist, his fingers massaging my skin with affection and care.

How did he...

“Yes”.

He hummed again in contemplation.

“How long?”.

I swallowed thickly and when I spoke, my voice shook, “Fi-five months... ago”.

“That's not what I meant”, he interjected and I felt his beard grazing lovingly against my forehead. He had turned his head to look at me but I kept my face hidden still in his neck.

With half a heart I gave him the answer he was really looking for, “Three years.”

His body tensed underneath me, just a tiny bit before he reigned himself in again and relaxed against me.

“Is he still around?”, he asked then and his breath stopped caressing me.

I shook my head negatively and his breath hit me gently once more.

I first felt him nod and then his beard was scratching the skin on my cheek again. This was my only indication that he had let his head drop next to mine, loosening his neck to enjoy this strange entanglement as much as me. Me, who a few hours ago would swear would never touch men again, would never even go near them.

But entire minutes passed and we were still not moving from our comfortable position. My body had become so warm and relaxed that I felt like I had no nerve endings, no pumping veins to remind me of stress and responsibilities. He was holding me with the same strength and persistence and something in me, something that itched and pulsated although I wanted to admit no such thing, told me that he wasn't bound to let go any time soon. 

But he had too eventually and if he wasn't ready to realise it I should be the one to make it easier for the both of us and part. Besides, I was the one who had initiated this in some way. I was the one who had miserably crumbled in the arms of the first man who happened to touch me gently.

I began to discreetly push myself up, away from him, laying my hand flat on his hard pectoral to find balance and get away. How small and breakable did my fingers seem in comparison to the width and virility of his chest, I awed. Sniffing back the remainders of my tears I tried to compose and distance myself but with a single command, he stopped me.

“Stay where you are, please”.

I furrowed my brows in confusion.

“But you need to-.”

“In a bit, girl”, he cut me off calmly and tilted his head back so that he could find my eyes. This time I didn't look away.

I'm not certain what it was that he saw in the brown of my irises but whatever it was it made his brow quirk pleadingly and his lower lip soften and part from the upper.

I nodded my understanding and positioned myself back into my comfortable place. I tucked my face under his collarbones so that I could hear his heartbeat and allowed my shaky fingers to clutch at his sweater once more. And there I stayed, under his soft command, almost being lulled to sweet sleep by the steady rhythm of this man's heart that, even though I didn't know it yet, was bound to belong to me eternally.

And in the silence of the moment, during which my eyelids were about to close, my heart syncing to the calm tempo within his breast, he told me the most hilarious story in the history of hilarious stories. 

He drew a deep breath as if in preparation, “You know, when I was seven my dad took me out in an alley, a quite spacious one, to teach me how to ride a bicycle. It was fall, I believe and all the leaves were turning and twisting in the air and so the people in the neighbourhood had gathered them in piles here and there. The alley was full of those piles, which were very wet and greasy. This is London after all. I got up on that bicycle with all the joy and determination of a seven year old boy trying to make his papa proud, placed my heels on the pedals and off I went...”, and at that part he paused for a bit, drew another breath and then blurted out, “... and off I went and dived into one of the leaf piles, screaming like a baby whale or something. I ended up with my head shoved into the pile, frantically wiggling my legs and my butt like a headless chicken, trying to get out of there because I couldn't breathe. I was so shocked that my dad had to come to my rescue...”. 

I raised my head and saw him staring at a random spot, somewhere far in the distance of his memory with a faint grin adorning his lips. He must have felt my stare for he turned to look at me and wiggled his eyebrows, the grin twisting into a full mischievous smile. The expression was so comical and so unexpected from a regal face like his that I couldn't help myself...

I burst out laughing, weird images of a little boy screeching and wiggling his ass while stuck in a pile of completely harmless leaves. My hand came up to cover my red face. I didn't want him to see me getting all flashed and overexcited from such a simple thing as a childhood memory. One that sounded quite traumatic at that. I confess, up to this day I still don't know why he chose that specific moment to tell me about it.

He joined me in the playful chuckles and awkward glances until we were both in the same condition. Red-faced and totally ready to continue with our business.

He gently deposited me on the bed, making sure that the blanket was still wrapped around my shoulders so that I wouldn't get cold or feel much too vulnerable while he worked and couldn't replace it with his hands. I saw him move around the room a bit. Apparently, he had to reset some things, put on new gloves and arrange his inks, as well as lathering a new coat of refreshing, pungent petroleum gel over my rib. It was frigid cold but he tried to do it as quickly as possible so that I didn't feel it distinctly. As I observed him do all that, his brows furrowed in deep thought, his mouth set on a hard line and his eyes frantically searching for signs, answers, signals in the air, I was given the impression that he seemed... tormented. Restless. I cannot hide that I immediately felt guilty. Maybe I should have tried to hide my troubles a bit better. My violent past, my ruined life, my poor future... No other being deserved to be burdened with that knowledge.

He sat down on his little stool with the tattoo machine buzzing in his hand. His eyes found mine and all the sorrow and torture evaporated. The kind smile stretched across his bearded jaw and washed it all away. I couldn't stop my own self from giving away the tiniest hint of a lopsided grin. I trembled from the effort to keep it hidden behind my arm.

“Arabella...”, he addressed me softly.

I stole a glimpse at him as he turned fully towards me and put one arm over my waist, securing me in place with his elbow so that he could have full access to the rib. My belly filled with warmth as the wool of his sweater rubbed against me.

“I'm going to fill some spaces, draw a few lines and then I'll continue with the shading. That last bit hurts the most and especially because the design stretches across bones you will feel it a lot.”

I nodded.

“So I'd like you to fulfill two little wishes of mine, alright?”.

I looked at him with blurry eyes, my mind a bit foggy.

“First of all, focus on your breathing as you so wonderfully did before and... perhaps you already know this...”, he grinned, “... but pain sometimes forces us to release something that's caged inside. Something that's been there for a while and begs to come out. Girl, if you feel it, let it out, alright? Set it free. And if it's too strong and you think you can't do it on your own, _I'm here_. I'll just put this little guy...”, he shook the machine and pulled a funny face that made my lower lip quiver, “... back in its resting place and...”, there he paused and tapped his chest with his other gloved hand, “... you can crawl back here, okay? It's always warm, I promise.”

_I promise._

_It's always warm here._

_Warm._

_Rough hands, warm heart._

_Tom..._

His words were spoken with a timbre of candour that struck a chord in me. Perhaps it was more than a chord on second thought. He switched on the lights and a whole orchestra started playing something of the past mixed with something of the future.

“Okay”, I answered and nodded too, closing my eyes to escape the magnificence of him.

_Rough hands, warm heart._

_No_ , I defied. The phrase did not describe the man in the neat and conservative way. A more abstract meaning lurked there, bound between the words and stressed in a voice full of pain and secrets.

There was nothing rough about this man's hands. His heart was indeed warm, of that, I was assured. I had felt it beating against my cheek, had touched it and synced my mind to it. It burned like the sun itself, full of care and abnegation. This man had so much love to give. But this man didn't have rough hands. His hands were soft to the touch, gentle when they caressed, attentive when the situation demanded it and forceful when chaos ruled. But they were not rough. His spirit was rough. A spirit stubborn and fiery, like a Scot's, like a man's who's seen a lot, done a lot, perhaps suffered a lot, wanted the world at his feet but only one fellow spirit at his side. His spirit was rough, raw, pure and so one of the tools of its distribution had to also be described as rough... His hands.

Absent-mindedly I looked at them and through the thinness of the plastic, I spotted an old-school swallow.

He continued hurting me for at least two more hours, only stopping once or twice to change needles, replace the inks, insist that I finish the bottle of water by the bed, and I, obediently and meekly as was my nature, did as he said and breathed the pain in, embracing it, loving it as it spread throughout my core and tantalized my mind.

No more tears came. Only a twisted kind of relaxation that I was sure by now he recognised. _Who are you?,_ I wondered _. And what is your relation to my pain? How did you sense it?_

“Would you mind if I put some music on? It helps me concentrate”, he asked, interrupting my disorganised thoughts.

I gave a light shrug, “I don't mind.”

He smiled brightly at that. Why did he always smile? It almost annoyed me to watch him being this happy. But then... what if the people who smile a lot are actually the saddest ones? What if he drew some kind of consolation from me as much as I was from him? In the whirlwind of my what-ifs I did not hear him address me.

“Who's your favourite artist at the moment?”.

“What?”.

“Artist. Who do you enjoy listening? Come on, girl, give me ideas. Don't know what to pick”, he elaborated.

“I... I don't know... I-.”

“Yes, you do. Tell me.”

I swallowed thickly, searching for someone whose music could be considered neutral.

“Ahm... Bon Iver, I think...”, I stuttered out, my cheeks literally flaming. For some reason, sharing information about people and things I liked always made me feel weirdly exposed.

His brows shot up to meet his hairline and, as you have probably guessed already, _he smiled at me_. A wide, magnanimous, generous smile that made me feel all warm inside.

“I love Bon Iver”, he simply stated, but the spark in his eye made it clear that it was a much bigger realisation that he presented. He turned the music on and came back to me, ready to change into a new pair of disposable gloves.

This was the third pair he was going through and I just wanted him to... I just...

He took them off and picked up the new ones but I stopped him with a voice as weak as a bird's whose wings were broken and bleeding.

“You don't have to...”.

It's insane what deprivation can do to a shy person, I can assure you of that. It's even madder to consider what deprivation can also do to shyness that's been abused. Plastic were the gloves of the doctors that had thoroughly tended to me, night and day. Mending, stitching, treating, disinfecting. It was an anonymous barrier that soothed and offered some peace of mind. Most of them were men so not having them touch me, actually touch me was a comfort. But in spite of my experiences, in spite of all my aversion to anything masculine therefore demanding and dirty and greasy and what not, my heart kept screaming at me, _you need to feel this one_. _You need to feel this one. Trust me. Not the plastic. Don't put barriers. Don't distance yourself._

The cries of my heart were cut off by the tenderness in his tone, “What do you mean, darling?”.

Of course, with expressed desire comes questioning. I wasn't comfortable answering him but I had no choice. Not when he looked at me like an angel. I looked away, trying to ignore the uneasiness in my stomach.

“You don't... you don't have to put them back on”, I explained and felt disgusted with the tremor of my voice, “It's fine...”. _You're sanitising them like crazy anyways, look you finished the whole Detol bottle..._

There was torturous silence for a while. Torturous and unforbearing silence that made me question whether I had made a mistake in telling him this or not. Iver was singing _Holocene_ in the background. Was this going too far with him? Did it sound weird to a tattoo artist to not wear gloves during a procedure? It probably did. Was I about to be told off? Chuckled at? Teased about? Probably yes.

“Are you sure?”, I heard him speak in a low controlled voice. With these three simple words, he ruined all the castles of worries and tore down all my veils of uncertainty.

I nodded, almost elated that he hadn't taken even more time for consideration.

“I want to hear your voice, girl. Words.”

My knees, even though I wasn't standing, felt like jelly by the command in his voice. Commands just sounded so much better in voices of such depth and dimension.

“Yes. It's okay.”

I could only hear my breathing now and his too, mine a bit erratic, his calm and controlled as from the very first moment I met him. I believe he was having a conversation with himself over what to do. I believe he fought hard to say no before he yielded to the wishes of my weak spirit...

There was still music in the air when he finally touched me.

_And I could see for miles..._

_Miles..._

_Miles..._

I didn't flinch at all, only welcomed the sensation of tenderness personified upon my body. His hands, as warm and embracing as a hot shower after a long day, stretched the bit of skin that needed work and applied the painful pressure of the needle. I took a deep breath in and distinguished between the piercing pain and the pleasure. It didn't last for long though. Soon my eyes closed. All I could see was the soothing darkness. And then something happened and my thoughts exploded in colours and splashed the darkness with hope and warmth. The realisation that I was being touched whilst being hurt and was showing no signs of disgust, was painted in bright pink, the pink of the sunset when it's slightly mixed with the yellow of the sun. That was the colour of my release.

Another song. But Bon Iver wasn't alone this time in his quest to express the inexpressible...

“... _shale, screen your worry_... _from what you won't_... _ever find_...”

Tom the artist was singing, so calmly and peacefully that the words were almost whispered all over me, spreading goosebumps everywhere. He hummed and pressed the ink underneath my skin like he was blessing it to go in, root well and prosper.

“... _don't_... _let it fool you_... _don't_... _let it fool you_...”

My skittish eyes flew to his face which was distorted with emotion and melody. His brows were furrowed, the crease in between holding all the sorrow of the world. That was at least until he saw me looking at him and smiled again.

“Sorry, it's a habit”, he apologised and for a minute I wasn't sure if he meant the sorrow, the singing or the smiling.

“Your voice is nice”, it was out of my mouth before I had the chance to filter and drown it.

He chuckled playfully and shook his head. His eyes stayed focused on the design as if abashed, shying away from my words. To be honest, I wasn't really expecting it from him.

“Is it?”, he doubted openly.

I hummed in agreement, hoping that he would continue to sing to me. I wanted more of his voice inside me. Deeper and deeper I wanted it to go and reach something, whatever that might be.

“Do you sing?”, he asked me.

“No.”

“And why not?”, he sounded utterly surprised.

“My voice is not as nice as yours.”

“Nonsense. Yours is melodic and tender like the swallow's on your rib”, he argued.

“You don't know that.”

“Prove me wrong”, he challenged, “Sing with me.”

I giggled nervously and hid my face in my palm, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Yes. Come on”, he urged me and began singing again.

I held my ground for a good solid five minutes but then... Then my heart began to swell with something I couldn't identify and my body was feeling everything all at once and my mind wasn't racing for the first time in a while. We were also alone in the studio. No one would hear me or make fun of me. _He_ certainly wouldn't.

_Won't..._

_Won't..._

_Won't..._

_“... let you talk me... won't let you talk me... down...”_

I joined in as quiet as a mouse at first and then when he realised he had won in persuading me and smiled at me as he sang, I found my voice and increased the volume just a bit until there were no more words to sing. The tattoo gun held our rhythm and our voices mingled as if they were meant to from the beginning of time.

When he was done and satisfied with his work, he washed any excess, wiped away all the smudging and wrapped my rib in gelatine and bandage, treating me the same way you would treat a scared deer, so carefully and always checking my reactions after all manner of touching. He helped me up and handed me my brace, undershirt and my sweater and then insisted that I eat at least two of the salty crackers he put in front of me. He said it helps with the blood flow.

As I ate them tentatively he instructed me on how to care for the tattoo from now on. I listened attentively, wishing to know in full detail how to preserve something so precious to me for as long as was possible.

As I was paying for the work, he asked, “Where do you live? Is it far away from here?”.

I looked up at him only to be met with concern and seriousness.

“Why do you ask?”.

“It's dark outside already and I don't feel comfortable letting you out there alone”, he explained, shaking his head, “I can call you a taxi.”

Astounded by his reply and the emotional entanglement behind it for I've never met anyone who cared so much about every single detail, I assured him I was going to be fine and lied through my teeth.

“I live nearby. It's... it's okay. It's only ten minutes walking.”

Meaning, it was half an hour and that's if I walked fast.

I got my receipt and took a glimpse at his face. It told me that he believed not a word that left my mouth. He knew I was lying but with a heavy sigh of defeat chose not to press me further.

He got down the stairs with me and escorted me to the front door where we both stopped as if it was premeditated and stood in silence. He had his hand on the handle and I was pulling at the edges of my sleeves as if I wasn't covered enough.

His own swallow, adorning the upper part of his hand was looking particularly chirpy.

He bent his head forward, his lips pressed together. I gathered he was going to to say something but perhaps had no idea how to express it. I gave him as much time as he needed since I, myself had no desire to leave his presence. He calmed me down and made me feel warm. How could I want to run away from that when I hadn't felt it for so long?

“Do you have people here in London to take care of you? Friends?”.

I shook my head no. That was a pitiful answer really. I had been living in London for almost four years and had made no friends at all.

“What about family?”.

I shook my head negatively once more, “My mother lives in France and my father... my father died a year ago”.

His blue eyes became bluer as they settled on mine. His grip tightened on the handle. His breath caught in his throat.

“I'm so sorry.”

I shrugged and smiled through the pain of the memory, “It's alright”, I looked outside at the cold and empty streets, “I need to... I need to head home. It's dark already like you said...”.

“Yes, of course”, he whispered, a heavy sadness hiding between the words, and opened the door for me.

“Thank you for...”, I was a bit reluctant to say what I wanted. Weary of how much power over me it would give him, “... for everything.”

He smiled at me for one last time that evening, making me feel like I was the most special being in his life yet as I turned to go, his voice reached me.

“Arabella?”.

I looked over my shoulder, slightly turning my body towards him.

“Girl...”, he took a deep breath, “... you owe me nothing but... should you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me. You have my number. Use it.”

My lips parted in surprise at his request, which truth been told, sounded more like a command. And I nodded my agreement exactly because of that. He wasn't sweet talking me into anything. He wasn't luring me into calling, manipulating me into initiating something. He was down right telling me, _you need me?, call me, I'll have nothing less._

“Promise me”, he further insisted, his voice turning sterner.

I bowed my head, suddenly too shy to stare at him square in the eye.

“I promise.”

And off I strode into the darkness of London, clutching at a stomach that was filled with a special type of algos. The one that made you wonder about and anticipate the unknown with much more delight than you'd feel comfortable admitting...

 

 

 


	6. Seething In Tenderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's good to be back, especially after stressful exams! Thank God, they are out of my way. Finally, Tom's point of view on the events of Friday night has arrived, melodramatically written and freshly edited. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore their rights belong to their respective owners.
> 
> Thank you for sticking around even if it takes me forever to update! I very much appreciate it.
> 
> Next up, Arabella talks to her therapist about Tom. Prepare for a very cheeky and sassy consultation. 
> 
> Kisses!

**Tom**

  
  


  
  


“TOOOM.”

“Fucking... Christ”, I cursed, catching the ink cups milliseconds before I almost dropped them. And what a beautiful sloppy splash they would have made and what lovely permanent blotches they would have created on my light beige wooden floor. My ridiculously expensive wooden floor. But if one lives for the aesthetic...

“Mother... fucker”, I gasped with an incredulous shake of the head.

How many times had I told him not to shout like that? My heart jumped in my mouth, my whole body jerked. But Jeremy wasn't aware of the echoy rooms nor did it bother him to have his voice maximized by a tenfold whatsoever.

“How many times...”, I kept mumbling under my breath as I made my way downstairs, already starting to forget about the close miss up. It's a daily occurrence, to let go of things like that. What's the point of chastising and keeping grudges when you can just keep quiet and thank yourself later for your patience?

I was about to shout back at him what the hell he wanted, a big smile tinting all my features. Even my ears were wiggly with the need to smile at him, be playful, take it easy, endure his teasing with grace. At this point, perhaps it's wise to mention that Jer never smiles, under any circumstances, for no reason. He makes no exceptions. Therefore, when he spots the slightest stretch of my lips, teasing commences within seconds as if smiling is some kind of sacrilegious act.

I was so ready to have a little verbal fight and had momentarily forgotten about my appointment at 5:30 that when I noticed he was with someone in our check out desk I frowned in confusion, the mocking smile slowly fading away.

She had come just in time, both clockwise and life wise, but the latter will be thoroughly explained later on in the story. My 5:30 appointment. My little swallow.

I did a quick inspection, nothing more. Not that I had time to do more. Jeremy made sure to bring her to the most uncomfortable position with one of his pregnancy jokes, reserved just for me when around women I didn't know. A classic procedure that had driven many a young lass away from the 'old man', this being another trick of his, a stereotypical nickname to throw them off. One could undoubtedly reach the forlorn conclusion that he was in love with me but too shy to admit it. Oh, no. He's just a hilariously sarcastic tease, I guarantee.

She had brown hair with a spoonful of caramel here and there, trimmed into delicate edges that shyly caressed her neck and shoulders. Thin build and tall as an elegant gazelle. A minimalist in clothing. And yet...

Except for the moment, she snapped her head up at Jer's joke, I hadn't seen her face clearly enough yet I did make out crispy rosy cheeks and a runny nose from the cold outside. Dressed in a simple cashmere sweater, whose sleeves she kept pulling at nervously, and comfortable Adidas, a small black leather purse hanging from her shoulder and no more protection than a flimsy coat bent over her forearm, she refused to look at me for a long time and when she finally did, in that brief unguarded moment, I didn't like what I saw in those warm chocolate eyes.

It wasn't the position of her head that she altered in order to cast her gaze on me. She only raised her eyes for a couple of seconds, head frozen and bowed as if she was expressing some kind of deference towards me, reverence that I couldn't understand or relate to myself. But for that flitting moment when I looked at her, genuinely smiling, so as to appear friendlier and not as tall and threatening as I often did, something happened which I cannot put into precise words. What I mean is, the words are sharp and definite, but the meaning still remains a mystery to me.

I will try to stay away from romanticism and melodrama as much as I can even though my soul yearns to write poetry about it. About that little crack in time, that small break from reality during which, I met her through her eyes in two hundred different occasions, in more than one worlds, in every fragment of space and time, and as I saw my frame reflected on them, on the chocolate sea, I was taught the greatest truth about my life.

She was going to mean something, that girl. She meant something, although all I knew was her name. She means the world to me, now, in the present, where I know all about her light and her darkness alike.

“Alright, Tommy. Everything in order for tomorrow. Want me to do anything else before I head off?”, Jeremy notified, shaking me out of my unexpected daze.

I told him to go, bidding him good night, wishing to be alone with her, observe and get to know her as much as I could. As much as she would allow me to, frankly, for she didn't seem like the sharing type. Most people aren't. Too much information that they'd rather not unbury. Fear of becoming a burden. Insecurities. I'm not blind to those things but I do love to expose them. And right now, there was a deep need blooming within me to make her shed her layers. To see what's underneath.

“Are you sure about this?”.

No voice reached my ears. Just a nod. But it would suffice for the time being. It was a decisive nod after all and from my experience all these years, it's nice to have clients who have actually made up their minds about their tattoos.

Also, I was rather grateful she hadn't called it off at the last minute. The swallow, this particular design, realism blended with very artsy lines, was one of my favourites and one with a great history behind it, at that. I was longing for the moment someone would be attracted to its delicacy and neutrality.

We went upstairs to my own private lab, where I showed her in and helped her with her bag and coat. In truth, I was trying to be polite and as none imposing as I could but she seemed to notice neither my actions nor my good intent. As I carefully hang her things on the hooks at the back of the door I recalled what the postmodernists say about time. Things, experiences, emotions slide by differently on the inside. Each of us is unique because we function in our own time even if the standardised one pushes us daily to stay within compartments. Within curfew. Maybe that was the case with her. Maybe she worked differently on the inside. 

The design wasn't quite complete yet so I had to take care of that before I could stick it on her rib for placement choice. I offered her a seat on my squeaky couch. I went to sit at my desk. Then silence slipped in through the cracks and, this is the weird thing about silence, it can both make you comfortable and raise hot flashes all over your body.

“Arabella...”, I whispered tenderly, the letters of the name flashing before my eyes. I felt as if by saying it I was close to touching it, feeling it, understanding its owner a little bit better.

The vowels raised inappropriate thoughts in my mind. The consonants made me lose my focus. And the way she shifted around, struggling not to make the couch squeak, as she patiently waited, eyes cast down, so silent and inconspicuous. If that couch of mine had softer and plusher cushions her very figure would have been swallowed within. Like Alice going down the deep rabbit hole.

“You have a lovely name, girl”, it was out of my mouth before I had the chance to force it down my throat and was now stock still and anxious about how she'd receive it.

Her reaction, in the end, wasn't unexpected. She didn't speak, barely looked up at me with those wide almond eyes that reminded me of culture and renaissance. She was thinking hard, biting her lips from the inside, stilling herself in her seat as if my words were lightning and she'd been struck.

It would have been fine with me but I was struck by my own lightnings. I craved communication with her so I asked for it. I told her she had a lovely voice too.

She straightened, she apologised, she thanked, all in a very proper manner, following the rules of some decorum to which I was not accustomed. Despite the lingering silence, her almost rehearsed tone, the way she abruptly pulled herself together, despite all of it, I selected the features she probably didn't want me to notice.

The tremor in her voice as she mentioned what a challenge her day had been. Her choice of words, always short and immediate. A sense of the European in the clearness of her pronunciation. Eyes that never stayed on me but drifted to the floor where I supposed, she judged as a neutral ground. I had this distinct feeling that something was not quite right or rather, that I wasn't privy to a special piece of the puzzle that posed the key to everything. 

I was truly sorry for whatever work condition she had gone through for I knew all too well that not all people can claim complete satisfaction from their occupation, as I did. At the same time, I didn't wish to intrude, so I addressed the subject with compassion and dropped it, though the heaviness in my chest alarmed me that whatever was going on inside her wasn't solely work-related. And even if it was, maybe later, after she had gotten a bit more used to my presence around her, she'd feel more comfortable in sharing it. No matter the case, my curiosity about her was peaked. That much I could tell.

When the stencil was ready and properly soaked in gel, I motioned for her to stand up and come to me, a searing excitement filling up my sensitive guts to finally see this special art piece on someone's skin. Her's was rather pale, therefore the contrast with the jet black ink would be most pleasing to my picky eyes.

“Haven't changed your mind, have you?”, I teased, tilting my head to the side.

My chirpiness was amiss. I giggled, I smiled, I charmed her with all the ways I knew make people a bit more comfortable, for I wanted her to be like this, comfortable, and yet she was still mute. Shrunken in a defensive position with her shoulders slightly hunched and her eyes cast down.

“It's beautiful”, she murmured then and for reasons beyond my comprehension my heart jumped and dived right into my stomach.

She liked it. My work. My sketch. And that somehow made me feel important.

A shy, self-satisfied smile crept up on my lips but I tried to force it down as I proceeded, because this one, this little grin, had nothing to do with making her feel easy and comfortable. Rather...

“Can you take off your sweater, please?”, and then I added for good measure, “And if you're wearing an undershirt I would advise to take that off as well. The tattoo gun makes the ink splash sometimes. I wouldn't want to ruin your clothes.”

It was a typical procedure for the client to sometimes shed a few clothes. The body parts I've seen, you can't imagine. However, I have a dire responsibility towards each and every person that comes into this studio to never judge, never comment, never make them feel unwanted. On the contrary, on occasion, if I can help a mother with two kids feel better about her belly pouch, I'll make it my business to say the right thing to her. If a young woman has grown tall too abruptly and she's got stretch marks on her thighs, I'll highlight how beautiful she looks at least three times before we're over. If a man is self-conscious about not having visible abdominals, and trust me, there are a lot of men out there who feel like that, I'll simply joke about having abs in general and the mood will lighten. But this one... Arabella. I couldn't make her out clearly enough and so far, all the clues led to conclusions I was afraid to draw.

Her problem did not have to do with the external. It was inside that she suffered.

Her eyes were frantic now, going over random spots on the floor, and her hands were holding that sweater just a tad tighter now. She was thinking too much again. I say again because from our short time together in this room, I had gathered she did that a lot. Her brow would quirk, as funny as that might sound. To me, it was a feature that looked endearing and made me smile knowingly, but I supposed she was in true mental torment. A single thought can turn into insecurity within seconds, no matter how confident a person is. Moreover, a seemingly sly thought can turn into a perversive one, regardless of a person's purity.

“Arabella... May I call you that?”, I began gently.

She didn't refuse.

“Please, let any worry you have aside”, I assured her, “There is no one here except for you and me, I promise. It's alright.”

To my surprise, she met my gaze, her eyes remaining glued to mine longer than the previous flitting times. I refrained with all my might from smiling, wishing to make her understand how seriously I took my job, how much I respected her and the trust she consequently had to give me. I don't know what she gathered from our shared stare. Unfortunately, I'm not a mind reader, but when she dragged those terribly disoriented eyes away from me, I felt she was more decisive, even though her trembling hands betrayed otherwise.

I turned around, diverting my attention elsewhere. I scratched my beard as I waited for her to undress, a tiny voice at the back of my head screaming at me about the signs I should start considering. I was trying to ignore them, I will not deny that.

 _Silent, scared, unfocused, shaking, gooseflesh, mindful of proximity, male presence, underlying PTSD, bags under eyes, chapped lips, no hydration, taken innocence, fuck my observation skills, shut up_!

She wasn't like one of the other cases entering my private room. She wasn't a woman with mild insecurity about a body part that potentially looked like treasure to me and so I would definitely let her know. This one was shaking, second-guessing, measuring my steps so she could adjust hers. A strategist. A walking planner. She saw me as a stronger pawn in the chessboard. And what do you do with stronger pieces, stronger opponents?

You fear them.

You avoid getting killed by them.

You try to remain one step ahead.

What it all meant, I did not wish to come to terms with because the very thought that someone, a woman so seemingly sensitive and shy, could be scared of me made my blood boil with guilt, even though I'd done nothing.

She came around to stand in front of me, again, a good five steps away, with her hand locked on her elbow and eyes on the floor. _Eyes on the bloody floor_.

I smiled kindly, mainly to make myself feel better about the situation, and knelt down on one knee by her side, pretending I could keep things professional. Pretending that I wasn't seething with the need to sit her down and ask her about life and her fears. Hell, I was so curious, so fearfully intrigued that I would even tie her down on the couch if that meant she'd talk.

“Raise your arm for me, please”, I forced out, simultaneously reaching for my glasses on the desk behind me.

She raised it slowly, steadying her body as if in preparation of something awful.

Apart from the fact that she fitted the skinny body type category that unfortunately lent towards malnourishment, by which point all my protective instincts were raising alarms in my head, because like I said that girl meant something, I can't feign I was prepared for what I saw on her side, stretching across her waist like visible bindings that held hostage memories and horror personified.

One word came up in my mind. How could it not? I knew this.

 _Belt_.

I had felt this. I was feeling it again now.

There was a piercing stinging in my eyes at the sight of it and a strange sensation in my heart followed suit. I pretended to try to position the stencil correctly, as she wanted it, but in truth, I was biding my time reading hospital reports and assessing tissue damage and counting semi-healed stitches.

Somewhere, deep inside my mind, I wasn't here anymore. I was a boy again, in a place the passage to which I only know, struggling to man up and take my beatings without cracking.

_Belt. Thin shape. Certainly leather. Long calibre. Potential scarring. Force applied probably by person in inebriated state. Female. Approximately, in her twenties. Unconscious. Maximum blood loss. No arteries hit. Possible infection hence the swelling..._

I pressed a hand to my mouth and drew a deep breath through my nose, closing my eyes to get rid of it all. The pain, the information, my need to stop everything and talk to her. More composed than before, I attempted not to look at the scar, the pink and tormented flesh having swelled on either side of the belt's impact and found the perfect position for the swallow. Directly under her sports bra so that it could stretch nicely all over her small rib.

My back was on fire. My neck flashed. My heart, broken. What right thing can you say to the abused?

But things only got worse, for when I began to gently press the stencil, she flinched away, her balance slightly changing from one foot to another. We met eyes almost instantly, hers full of concern, mine knowledgable. I wanted to tell her it was alright, that I understood, but she looked away quickly, raising her chin pridefully away from me, probably trying to force herself to remain strong through the unusual contact. It made sense, in all honesty. If she refused to look at me, was I really there? Was I really gently pressing a stencil onto her naked skin?

“If you turn around there's a mirror. Does the placement work for you? Do you perhaps want it a bit to the left, a bit to the right?”, I told her, the words coming out of my mouth like a rehearsed poem.

“No... It's right where it should be”, she said and my heart lightened.

Despite my current unhappy and trapped state, trapped between expressing myself openly and saying nothing at all, her praise brought a hopeful smile to my lips.

“Hop on the bed, darling. Let's start.”

I got my equipment ready, sanitised hands, put on gloves, just like always. I also informed her of the procedure and the steps I was going to follow but I don't think she was really listening. Apart from her mixed up emotions, I believe she was empty inside or at least in the process of emptying herself. It worked as a coping mechanism for many abused. To separate their minds from the physical sensations. It is a sort of escape.

I winced at my own thoughts whilst instructing her to assume position for me. I could have told her to simply lie on her back. My work would have been easy like that as well. But something told me that by not looking at her, I was giving her some kind of privacy, which as she had indirectly indicated, she needed. Part of me thought that I was obliged to respect her wishes. But as I turned it over and over in my head, I began to consider that maybe, allowing her to shut me out wasn't the solution. I should rattle her a little, disturb her. She was too trapped in her head. I wanted to release her. Like I was once released. But despite my observations about past mistreatment, I knew not how. This required delicacy.

I watched her for a bit, lying there on her side, small shapely breasts relaxed and gently confined in her Calvin Klein, rising up and down steadily with each refined breath. With gentle moves and lightness, I pulled the stencil off her rib and shaved the area. Tears were stinging my eyes again as I drew the razor over her ribcage and felt it bump against the protruding bones, a sad sign that she wasn't taking care of herself much. I massaged the petroleum gel into her skin, watching her intently for any hint of discomfort but she was ultimately quiet, her eyes open but not really seeing anything. I applied the stencil again on now freshly moisturised skin and peeled it off one last time, finally seeing the design clearly in its blue outline.

Seeing her there, maybe a little peaceful for the first time, I suddenly lost my appetite to cause her pain. Instead, with my brows furrowed and my heart bleeding for her, I wished to kiss her and put her to sleep. Cook for her, hold her, take her gently and all the little or big things you read about in romance novels. The realisation that I had no right to treat her like that, for I was a stranger, hit me hard and increased the heaviness in my chest.

I took the tattoo gun and turned the needles on, using my thumb and forefinger to stretch the skin around the swallow's head. I pierced her a little, dragging the needle swiftly and with precision upon the shape in front of me and then I stopped. I wished to prepare her by this. To see how she reacted to the special type of pain.

She didn't even flinch.

“How does that feel, little swallow?”, I asked just to be on the safe side.

She shivered, her skin breaking out in gooseflesh under my hands, “It's fine.”

I kept going then, struggling to stay focused on the design whilst also trying to keep away too brutal thoughts and my own personal, painful baggage. Memories were carried in the air around me, escorted by the intense buzzing of the machine yielded by fingers that had seen softer days. I kept them at bay. The memories. On second thought, the fingers too.

Perhaps some light conversation would be just what the doctor ordered, so I initiated it as absentmindedly as I could, attempting to not sound as if I was desperately trying to fill up the clouds of silence with the colours of words.

“You take it well, girl. I'm impressed. I've seen the toughest of men faint during rib tattoo procedures.”

“Merci.”

My assumption about Europe was confirmed.

“So I was right about the European vibe in your accent.”

“What?”, she mumbled, the word spoken leisurely as if she was waking up and stretching from a particularly good dream.

“The European vibe in your accent. Over the phone, the other day, you didn't sound entirely British to me.”

“Oh... yeah.”

“Where do you come from?”.

She took a deep breath, “My mum is French and my dad was Scottish. I've lived both in France and Edinburgh so I guess my accent is a mixture of the two.”

“Interesting mix”, I commented, swerving the needles down the slope of the bird's neck, “Did your dad fall head over hills for the Parisian elegance?”

“Actually no. It was my mum that fell for that Highlander savageness.”

I couldn't hold back a laugh as pictures of brooding Highlanders in traditional clan colours roaring and poaking one another with their dirks flooded my mind. The laughter reverberated through my chest and that's when I decided I should make a fool of myself.

“We wee laddies are har' tae resist.”

Her ribcage shook under my hold as the sweetest sound reached my ears. It was so unexpected that I gazed up at her immediately only to see that her lips had broken into a wide smile. She was giggling like a little girl.

 _Finally_. I should've made a fool of myself much earlier. Works every time. But honestly, jokes aside, something stirred within at the sound of such sweet merriment. Was it pride, pride from somehow achieving my goal? Was it elation, to discover that she still had energy inside her? Was it panic, that this small tribute of acceptance, a sweet giggle, was actually the omen of something terrible to come?

“Are you...?”

“From my dad's side. My mum is from London, hence the clearness and poshness of the accent”, I briefly explained.

However, for all her nervousness, she was brave. Brave enough to have turned back to steady and normal breathing, precisely as I had requested.

“Really good breathing, girl. Very nice”, I whispered before I even realised I was doing it. It was that 'something', as I keep telling you, that made me wish to give her all the praise in the universe, “I know you'll be so brave for the shading part too. It's said to be the most painful but I know you'll get through it just fine.”

Within seconds, the little hairs outside the area I had shaved, were electrified, straightening to attention, calling mine like magnets attracting opposites. My elbow was sort of balancing on her belly so I was immediately aware of its tightening. And her thighs, even though this part was not accessible, rubbed against each other without the slightest effort for the little act to remain discreet.

I loved praising. She liked receiving it. Maybe she hadn't in a while. But had I jinxed it all by indulging? Did she feel even more vulnerable now? Was that why her tears were now staining the leather of the bed? Had I touched a nerve? Was that why she was crying? I can tell a girl how great she looks after birth or a man not to worry about his abs, but what do I say to the loveless? To the broken who break even further under me and my needles? It hadn't happened to me before.

Bless her, Arabella, the little swallow, she was struggling to choke it, push it back down into her stomach but sobs are violent bursts of emotion. You can't just force them to work your way. And what she was having difficulty with realising was that she had to do no such thing. No forcing down. No manning up. No proving herself. Not to me. But how could she know that? I was a stranger and she was crying in a stranger's workshop.

I swerved back on the stool, took off my glasses, put the machine back in its place, got rid off the gloves, and when I turned to check if she would be alright to wait just a minute I saw that she was in no position to answer me. Her outstretched arm was tightly squeezed against her flooding eyes, belly spasming silently, a desperate need to draw her knees up but no strength to do it.

 _You don't know her_ , I told myself as I got up, feeling as if I was betraying her by leaving, even if it would be for nothing but a moment.

 _Everyone has had difficult times, you of all people should know. Leave her, not worth breaking your own heart_ , I tried to see reason but if I knew myself just a little bit... I wasn't like that. She needed me. Or I needed her to need me. We are human, aren't we? So where is our humanity? Where's the kindness? She deserved nothing less, stranger or not.

I opened the bathroom door as quickly as I could and grabbed a large towel from the wall heaters by the sink and then practically ran back upstairs to her, since the bathroom, unfortunately, was downstairs.

I found her as I had left her. Hurt, frozen, undeniably broken somewhere inside. I rushed towards the stool, snaked my foot around the base and pulled it to me, sitting down at once. I opened up the towel and let it fall all over her nakedness, clutching its edges so that I could wrap her up in safety and warmth. I instantly felt blessed for having a thing about luxurious heated towels. Their purposes varied.

I didn't stop for a moment to think that maybe the protection of such softness would be enough. I didn't stop to think that maybe that was all she needed from me. The kindness of covering her bareness and my silence as she took it all out on that leather bed. No. Maybe it would have been enough for her, but it was not for me. I took her by the shoulders, slipping my arms under her, embracing her entire upper body so that I could hoist her up against me. She needed me. Or I needed her to need me. Like this. I was egotistical. I admit it. I had to have her like this. And I would, no matter what she wished.

She put up no resistance, perhaps too lost inside her head to realise what I was doing. What a stranger was doing. My arms were tight around her. I kept them that way, ceasing not for a second to hold her up. I convinced myself I was giving her some kind of composure. Something solid that she could attach herself to and not let go until she felt ready. Ready to face reality again. Ready to talk to me perhaps, for I had a dire need to talk to _her_.

It turned out just so. Her weak veiny hands were expected to have fallen limp on our joined laps but instead, they came up. I saw long tired fingers elongating towards my chest, felt the wool which covered me twist and turn in her furious fist. With the worst kind of guilt, I confess I felt happy she sought out that contact. It was instinctive. It honoured me to find that she was holding onto me freely because her brain had pushed her to. Because her body needed someone else's. It meant I wasn't forcing but on the contrary, was offering warmth and kindness that were welcome. Of course, the darkness of her situation occasionally, as I held her, veiled all the happiness I could draw for I knew I had to somehow notify her that _I knew._ I knew what had happened, even before she told me. And the darkness of that knowledge, the bleakness, changed me fundamentally for the second time in my life, first time having taken place in my rebellious youth.

She stirred inside me all the feelings of sweetness and abnegation. I wanted to be good to her. For her. To respect her. To offer as much as I could. To show her I cared. To treat her nicely. To display affection, for which men are not known for. I wanted her to see I was different. Or just, on a very primal basis, different from whoever had given her that scar. I wanted... I wanted... I wanted. I wanted what she wanted. Bottled up sensitivity finally unleashed. I was on the brink of tears myself just by listening to her gasps.

I concentrated on her back, my hands going over all spots that might feel sore or numb or just plain dead. Taking special care to not remove the towel, I rocked her slightly back and forth though I refrained from speaking or shushing. I bit my tongue and let her weep, struggling with the stubborn traits of my identity not to give her more. More from a stranger. A kiss would violate her. A comforting word would make her pull away. Intertwined fingers would ruin everything. But this embrace would stay tight... Were we strangers any more if we hugged like this?

One of my hands came to rest on the place where her scar should be under the towel, coiling like a disgusting snake around her delectable little figure. She had stopped crying to my great elation. The hotness of her tears on my neck had been both a blessing and a curse. And I ask you again...

Are we still strangers if she has baptised me in her pain? Are we still strangers if her breath is so close to me that I can taste it and it tastes of tears?

It would sound strange for _how could I know this_ , but I said it anyway. I had to make sure.

“Belt.”

“Yes”, she replied without equivocation. 

I hummed and kept my voice lowered, as it should be, especially in this instance when such an important and delicate matter was put under the microscope.

“How long?”

“Fi-five months”, she stuttered, a more than evident fear lurking behind her words. She was giving me the wrong answer.

“That's not what I meant”, I argued and tilted my head to the side. I wanted to gaze into her eyes, into the redness of them where I knew there was chocolate warmth still. But her face was shoved into my neck with such insistence and force that I only managed to graze her with my jaw.

_I mean for how long was he doing this to you..._

“Three years.”

My stomach lurched and I had to take a deep breath to calm down. A breath I didn't let out until she told me he was gone now. But three years of fear. Three years of terrorism. Three years of who knew what else. Was it love at the beginning at least? At least? I couldn't bring myself to ask.

So I simply held her. This was the only way I knew how to comfort when words meant nothing and in return, with her submission and limpness, she was comforting me too. At some point my neck inclined towards her and before I even realised it, my jaw was balanced on her forehead and my arms were so boundlessly locked around her that it seemed we would never get up. I didn't want to get up and neither did she. That much I could feel. That much my heart could understand.

I needed to hold her. She needed to be held. No deal. Just people. End of story. Which was why when this whole issue about decorum got hold of her again and she decided she should detach herself from me, I stopped her with a more abrupt tone than was my intention.

“Stay where you are, please”, I breathed out, closing my eyes lethargically. The hotness of her body was more tangible when deprived of my sense of seeing. I could only feel her now, nestled against my chest. 

“But you need to-.”

“In a bit, girl”, I cut her off, not even sure about what she wanted to say in the first place.

Somehow, I seemed to had forgotten I was a tattoo artist on duty or that there was an unfinished piece probably itching and pulsing at a client's side. I didn't care. I was holding a beautiful girl whose history intrigued me and who obviously meant something to me. I had felt that something before. The grip in my stomach was familiar. The flashes up my spine rather identifiable. But I suppose I didn't want to admit it just yet.

I told her a story then. A simple one about myself, using little blurring details and refraining from grandiose evidence. For obviously, what I told her had never actually happened. My father had never taken me out to teach me the workings of riding a bicycle and thus, I had never failed tragically at it. My father had never escorted me to undertake such a task for he died when I was very young. But she did not need to know that. Not now.

I didn't want to label it as lying, although, from one perspective, it was, so I stayed focused on its purpose and not its telling because even though the latter was made up, the first was actually out of pure need to make her laugh with something, whatever that might be. Even a silly little lie to distract her from the pain of memories.

And when I achieved that, even by ill means, when she gave me her rejoiced voice through a lovely deep boot of laughter, I felt my insides swell with that same something I keep raving about. Fuck me, she laughed like an angel.

After we had both quieted down, for she had dragged me along, having me laugh with my own lie, I felt safe enough to let her go and continue the work. I laid her down gently, immediately missing the hot spot her tears had formed on my neck as well as the intense clutch she had on my sweater. A part of me, yes I know it sounds silly, was with her now, laying there tenderly, sensitively upon a leather bed, ready to be tattooed along with her.

But before that could happen, I just needed her to follow yet more instructions, though these ones, I can vouch, were of a more personal nature and were not totally intended for her comfort alone.

“Arabella...”, I addressed her softly, in the manner I knew made her shiver and focus. 

She turned her eyes upwards to look at me through thick, tear-stained lashes as I adjusted my position in a way that would have me almost feasibly hugging her again. Protecting her from the threat of empty space and unfamiliar air. I twisted my body towards her and draped an arm over the bend of her waist, securing her with my elbow against my side.

“I'm going to fill some spaces, draw a few lines and then I'll continue with the shading. That last bit hurts the most and especially because the design stretches across bones you will feel it a lot”, I informed.

She nodded.

“So, I'd like you to fulfil two little wishes of mine, alright?”.

Her blurry eyes did not leave mine as I spoke. Progress.

“First of all, focus on your breathing as you so wonderfully did before and... perhaps you already know this...”, I grinned knowingly for I had already established that similarly to me, she enjoyed the pressure of the needles just a tad more than was normal, “... but pain sometimes forces us to release something that's caged inside. Something that's been there for a while and begs to come out. Girl, if you feel it, let it out, alright? Set it free. And if it's too strong and you think you can't do it on your own, _I'm here_. I'll just put this little guy...”, I shook the machine and pulled a funny face that made her lower lip quiver, “... back in its resting place and...”, there I paused and tapped my chest with my other hand, “... you can crawl back here, okay? It's always warm, I promise.”

She looked at me intensely for what seemed like forever, random thoughts, to which I would love to be privy, running around, stomping here and there, breaking the glass of her eyes and giving me warm chocolate.

“Okay”, she whispered tentatively and returned her attention to something in the distance. Beyond my desk, through the wall of the studio, far away, where her mind was unreachable.

Two more hours we passed in buzzing silence, during which I was bringing my dream design into fruition upon her pale skin. It looked more beautiful than I had anticipated. But the silence became too much for me, too quickly and when a little thing irritates me, like the absence of words, usually everything else starts to as well.

“Would you mind if I put some music on? It helps me concentrate”, I suggested gingerly.

“I don't mind”, she shrugged lightly, her confirmation bringing a bright smile on my face.

 _Got you_ , I thought triumphantly, for now, I had a loophole to ask her about music. More information about her was vital. She wasn't just reports from the hospital ward and three years of pain. She was a being. One that looked like an intellectual soul and a picky minimalist. I had to know more.

“Who's your favourite artist at the moment?”.

“What?”.

“Artist. Who do you enjoy listening? Come on girl, give me ideas. Don't know what to pick”, I briefed, scrolling through Spotify playlists like a madman. Or at least pretending to.

“Ahm... Bon Iver... I think...”.

I turned my head towards her in surprise, eyebrows shooting up. This was interesting, a type of interesting that bordelined to me becoming obsessed with her.

“I love Bon Iver”, I settled for stating, trying to remain positively neutral.

I put on Holocene for starters and moved to replace my gloves. But when I reached across to a little drawer to pick up a new pair, a little voice called to me hesitantly.

“You don't have to...”, she almost whispered, stopping me mid-act.

I'm not going to hide it, I second guessed what I was hearing, first of all for she said it in a calm, composed way, regardless a whisper, that did not sound like her but rather, it appeared as if it had escaped the lips of some other entity, trapped within her, and secondly, I for was obliged by law and the 'medical' rule that bound us all, poor little tattoo artists, to do our duty with utter sanitization and care for the threats of possible bacteria. She was basically asking the absurd. But on another hand... was she?

“What do you mean, darling?”, I asked, already knowing the answer. I just needed more time to assess my steps and my sudden need to obey her. Surrender to her inclination and... touch her.

“You don't... you don't have to put them back on”, she explained and the tremor in her face made my brow quirk, “It's fine...”.

Was it really fine? Or was she trying to be brave and prove something to herself? To prove something to me? To prove something to men? That not all of us are made from the same godly mould. That she could actually put her trust in one... It was a lovely thought to have, albeit dangerous.

“Are you sure?”, I clarified, the tips of my fingers twitching from the uncontainable urge.

She nodded, but it would not suffice this time.

“I want to hear your voice, girl. Words.”

She sniffed, that short cute sniff small children draw when they have decided it's alright to sometimes cry a little.

“Yes. It's okay.”

Very carefully, tentatively, cautiously, tenderly, protectively, throw in there whatever adverb you like, I touched her rib and stretched the skin I was going to work on with thumb and forefinger, tattoo machine at the ready and buzzing. She did not flinch. She sighed. She did not cry. She closed her eyes. She did not see me, but I saw her. She let go of a deep breath, thick eyelashes flattering prettily like when air passes through spider webs. A shiver and good breathing, all of it, hopeful indicators that my touch was acceptable. Hell, one might go as far as suggesting that she liked it. Maybe she even, but it did sound far fetched to my ears, wanted it.

I needed something to distract myself from these tortuous thoughts, tortuous yet at the same time addictive, hence I turned to singing. I did not initiate it on purpose. It just happened. My thoughts turned into emotions, emotions turned into words and suddenly melody was accompanying the whole bunch. It happened to me a lot.

“... _shale screen your worry... from what you won't ever... find... don't let it fool you... don't let it fool you._..”. 

After a few half choked verses I felt her eyes on me, watching, observing in stunned shock as the goofy tattoo artist with his hugs and his fake childhood stories sang and smiled. 

“Sorry, it's a habit”, I apologised, shaking my head bashfully. 

“Your voice is nice.”

I chuckled at that, a light reddish colour rising on my cheeks. How she reduced me to a boy with just a mere compliment. Profound. 

“Is it?”, I doubted. 

She hummed positively in response. 

“Do you sing?”.

“No.”

“And why not?”.

“My voice is not as nice as yours.”

“Nonsense. Yours is melodic and tender like the swallow's on your rib”, I argued. I hoped it didn't sound like too bold a compliment. 

“You don't know that.”

Well, now she was challenging me.

“Prove me wrong. Sing with me.”

She giggled and hid her face behind her palms innocently, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Yes. Come on”, I pushed, eager to hear her. 

Bon Iver played still. 

_Won't_ ...

_Won't_ ...

_Won't_ ... 

“... _let you talk me... won't let you... talk me... down..._ ”. 

My ears perked up. She had given in. And she sounded as I had described. Melodic and tender, if a little bit shy and croaky too, like the voice of a swallow, calling out to its mate that it's time to move to warmer climates, where they can make and raise their young. Innocence and knowledge of the necessity of things, intertwined. Why did she believe she wasn't good at this? Maybe she needed to be convinced otherwise. 

I joined her high notes with my own more bass ones and the result was pleasing to the ears, to say the least. I knew I was smiling like a stupid fool, ruining the lyrics tremendously, but I couldn't stop it. And in fact, looking at it from a sterner point of view, we were in real danger here because I shamefully admit, I had my eyes locked more on her pinky lips rather than the actual design on her body. One wrong line and goodbye precious swallow. But as it appeared, she trusted me, a thought that both reassured me and made me even more anxious. 

It's such a peculiar thing, how time passes so painfully fast. How at times all I want is for it to move slower but it never does, as if out of spite. How at other times I want everything to be done as fast as lightning strikes. And how now, this one time, I was just praying that it would stop. That it would do me this gracious favour and trap me with her a little longer. But it did not. And sooner than was my wish, I was done with the design and was wiping off ink blotches with the slowness of a sloth, bandaging the fresh wound with gelatine and securing it in place with tape with the precision of a surgeon. If time could be stubborn so could I.

“All done, girl”, I announced, my consternation deep. 

Once I had given signal, she made to get up on her own but being tape restricted she was having difficulty so I rushed to help her, gently steadying her with my hands on her thin shoulders. 

She briefly glanced to where her clothes lay and tried to slide off the bed to get to them but I tightened my hand encouragingly and stopped her. 

“Don't get up just yet. You might get dizzy. I got it”, I assured and turned to hand her the clothes myself. I picked up the soft cashmere and the undershirt but I momentarily froze when the next thing I grabbed turned out to be stiff and rough. I squinted as I held it in front of me as I hadn't seen her taking it off when we started. 

The spinal brace was made of some rigid leathery material with clasps attached at the front, small enough so they wouldn't protrude through the other fabrics she wore and cause bumps. It was a full upper body one, not like others that focus only at the waist or the shoulders. This one was a practical armour of sorts. Why would she need that? What was its purpose? Scoliosis? Kyphosis? Something far worse and annoying and painful? Had  _he_ caused that one too? 

I didn't want her to be alarmed by me staring at it like this so I quickly turned and handed her everything, her coat and bag as well. 

Ignoring my suspicions and my urge to ask for more, I went to my desk and pulled out a packet of salty crackers. I wasn't comfortable with letting her go with nothing in her stomach. Actually, I wasn't comfortable with letting her go anywhere, for all intents and purposes but I couldn't express that. It was killing me slowly. 

“Eat. At least two. It helps with the blood flow”, I instructed. 

She drew two crackers out and began chewing hesitantly. I could feel her gaze directed at me as I moved about the space, putting bits of equipment back in their places. 

Alas, when I was done I came to stand in front of her, breaking my waist and balancing on one leg so I didn't look much taller than her, and told her how to care for the tattoo. 

“Stay away from showers for at least three days. You need to let the ink sink into the skin completely. Moisturize the area as gently and as often as you can. It's vital not to let it go dry. I would recommend pepanthol for this purpose. Once you get home remove the gelatine after an hour and wipe away with a cotton pad any excess that might have slipped out with sweat or other bodily fluids. Don't scratch or rub if it itches, just put another coat of pepanthol. When indoors, wear light fabrics to let the skin breathe. When outdoors always wear an undershirt so that even if more excess oozes its way out you can protect your clothes. Trust me, you do not want tattoo ink on your clothes. It won't come off by any means”, I chuckled towards the end as I was speaking from personal experience. 

We went downstairs and when payment time came, I was strangely sorry about taking money from her. It didn't feel right. Not after how we had been together up in that studio. Not after all I had learned. The spot on my chest muscle, where her head had rested, was still heavy and hot. 

No. I did not know her. Yes. She was my client. So what? Have you never had that one time in your life where you just...  _knew_ ? Where you just felt linked to another?

“Where do you live? Is it far away from here?”, I thought of asking but realised only too late how it came across. _Brilliant, Tom. Now she'll think you're a creep_ .

“Why do you ask?”. 

“It's dark outside already and I don't feel comfortable letting you out there alone”, I confessed, deciding that raw truth was better than trying to patch up the intrusiveness, “I can call you a taxi.”

Unfortunately, she refused, claiming her place was not far from here. She wasn't such a good liar. But there was nothing more I could do. Further insistence might make her panic or form an unwanted opinion about her artist. I sighed heavily, stifling all my protest. 

We stopped at the glass door at the same time. I, with a hand on the knob, she, pulling at her sleeves nervously, watching me, reading me, maybe reading herself through me...

“Do you have people here in London?”, I asked, intent on squeezing out a few more clues. 

She shook her head negatively. 

“What about family?”. 

She lowered her eyes to the floor. The pulling of the sleeves became stronger. 

“My mother lives in France and my father... my father died a year ago.”

My breath caught in my throat and suddenly I was strangling the doorknob, threatening to turn it into shards. There, a pang of guileless guilt clouded my reason, for which I had but two explanations. I was feeling it either because of the news themselves or because, in contrast to her honesty, I had lied about my own father. 

“I'm so sorry.”

“It's alright”, she shrugged and smiled toothlessly, “I need to... I need to head home. It's dark already like you said...”.

Still thoughtful, I agreed and opened the door for her. 

“Thank you for...”, she whispered at first. I was hanging from the words at the tip of her tongue, my mind in a dangerous haze of emotion, arousal, pain and confusion, “... for everything.”

She turned away from me hastily and set pace towards her destination, a pale clothed heathen in comparison to the darkness of London buildings. 

“Arabella...”, I called after her before I could stop myself. I was not the master of my mind tonight. 

She hadn't gone that far so she heard me and all too hesitantly, looked over her shoulder. 

“Girl...”, I took a deep breath and shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans, the nightly cold creeping up my spine traitorously, “... you owe me nothing but...”. 

I shook my head. To hell with it, “... should you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me. You have my number. Use it.”

_Exceptionally well, Tom, cheers. You couldn't have been sharper and creepier._

And yet, to my humongous surprise, she nodded yes. My eyes brightened again, lost their previous haughtiness. Could I push it just a bit further?

“Promise me.”

She bowed her head submissively, cheeks glowing pink from both the cold and her blushing. 

“I promise.”

And off she went, carried by the strong, sweeping winds, into the alleys, bents and twists of the city. 

I went back inside to take care of last minute things before closing down, struggling to preserve a little hope inside my heart that she would make me proud and use my damn number if she needed me, but that hope was faint and weak for I knew I would probably never see her again. 

Fate is cruel. This is just how the world works. No second glances. No more sweet caresses. An embrace. Smiles. We are slaves to something unknown and slaves we will always remain. 

Which is why, when I saw her the very next morning, hair wild from the wind, stealing a curious peek inside  _Cs & Ws_ , the pub, my pub, pulling at the threads of her sweater, hesitant to venture inside, I couldn't believe my eyes. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Under The Microscope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I would say I haven't seen you in a while but I uploaded on Rhymth just yesterday so... Well here is another update for the trusted followers of this other story of mine. Tom and Arabella's adventures continue! I literally just wrote this chapter, every single line. 
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore their rights belong to their respective owners. In this chapter, I have only featured a bit more evidence on Arabella's style. This is more office like, or... you know, more put together. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Thank you for staying tuned and commenting. I really appreciate it! Next up, Tom, Arabella, poetry, literature, a hot mug of coffee and all the bloody feels!

**Arabella**

 

“Sorry, I... I'm afraid I don't have anything new or interesting to say-”, I muttered, scratching my thumbnail with my other thumbnail.

“Life has been... the same. Nothing exciting to report. Nothing unusual”, my gaze was directed at the dazzling floor to ceiling window that allowed the London sunlight into the cream white room, making it ten times more spacious due to the paleness of the colours.

The chromatic phenomenon took me back to a summer vacation in Santorini, where I had strolled the streets with the love of my life, snapping pictures of whatever I'd found interesting. The sun there, had the exact same effect to the whiteness of the small houses as it did to this room. As the rays swam through the tiny streets, amongst flea markets, tourists and stray cats, everything intensified, everything was brought to such vivid life you could mistake the place for heaven. The architectural design of the island did not boast many angles or corners. All manner of pointy accents were blunted. Faintly, I could still feel the bright stone caressing the skin of my fingers as I traced it, searching for paint bumps...

Pigeons were manning up the window sill outside, ever-present keepers of the peace. _Each therapist appointment I schedule has to feature pigeons_. _Stupid feathery things, what are they good for..._

“I mean... apart from the fact I cried over the dishes in my sink this morning... I don't think there is anything else. And besides, I always cry over my dishes, you already know this. So it shouldn't surprise you...”, I mumbled on, the flash of red on my cheeks betraying the shame of the confession. Still, it was better to confess this than something else. Something far more... personal.

_...you have my number. Use it..._

My hand shook, my long fingers, recently moisturised and a bit calloused from writing, tapping anxiously on my knee. _She will see right through me_...

_Promise me._

_I promise._

_Fuck you, stranger Tom. Fuck you and your honeyed voice. Your God damn warm chest, your existence altogether that cost me my sleep last night. Your fucking lion curls and your fucking embrace..._

_Why do I even need you? I don't know you? I don't want you. Just... hold me._

I closed my eyes for a bit, my lashes fluttering as I gingerly recalled the sensation of him around me. A traitorous warmth crawled its way down my spine as his hand, his veiny, tattoed hand rubbed me through the towel. I shivered and squirmed when his beard gave me whisker burn once more, The echoes inside the ballroom of my mind asking the question...

_Tom?_

... the dancing, smoky, spiced, syllables replying...

_Arabella?_

I swallowed hard and pressed my fingers against my forehead, trying to incline my neck towards a chest that was not there to support me now. I crinkled my nose to catch the scent of him, the musk, the ink and the leather, but that too was nowhere to be found.

All the while, the scrutinising stare my therapist was giving me was to die for. Anna wasn't buying any of the shit that spilt from my mouth and she knew I knew it. I stared back, holding my ground as best as I could, but when the devil's grin broke out on her pale face and her sooty eyelashes batted prettily at me, I became very much aware that the battle was lost.

“Bitch, you done?”, she quipped, using a semaphore movement of her hand to indicate towards my person. To anyone else, it would seem dismissive and unprofessional but I knew better.

And besides, I never said our professional relationship was normal.

“I'm still wondering how the hospital trusts you with patients”, I quipped back, rolling my eyes at her before bending over to bury my face in my palms.

“Fuck you very much, honey”, she laughed at me, “Hospitals trust me because the people in the big chairs know better than to leave the patients in the hands of squirmish little bookworms who only value their occupation when academia or the press are involved. They see some action in the field and they panic. Give 'em a psychopath and they ask if he's vegan.”

She was being honest. Her approaches weren't straight out of the books even though she was a Harvard graduate.

“Now, I am certain that something happened and I would like to know it because there is no other way for me to help you. For the past three months, since our sessions started, you've been mute like a nun on sacred silence oath and still like one of the statues the British Museum likes to boast about. Today you're fidgeting like I stuck a stick up your ass and you're disoriented. So, what happened?”.

I sighed heavily and with an audible grunt, admitted, “Fine! Something did happen, alright?”.

“Now you're talking.”

“Is this how you approach your other clients too?”.

“None of them is as stubborn as you but I think we are making progress”, she dead punned, her bushy black brows shooting up to her equally inky hairline.

I scoffed indignantly and slumped back on my chair, forgetting all about my ladylike posture, my crossed legs, my straight spine, which was obviously not that straight if I had to wear a vest, and just behaved like my actual self. Timid, boyish and a little bit scared.

“I met someone.”

As expected, she squealed delightfully and addressed me, as always, more as a friend rather than a professional, “What?! Met someone? When? How? Where? Who? Who is-? Is he hot?”.

 _Damn right_ _he is,_ I bit my lip.

“Well, yes... he... he is actually... good looking, I mean... he is not so bad-”.

“So, out of all the questions I posed you choose to answer the spicier one”, she determined and took a note of it.

I rolled my eyes yet again, “Nice assessment techniques.”

“Thank you, darling. Please, continue”, she said, ignoring my scowl.

“Please don't interrupt me, okay? You know how I... how I lose my train of thought...”.

“Deal! Now spill”, she exclaimed, gripping that pen of hers a little tighter.

I took a deep breath and started playing with the threads of my sweater only to realise morbidly that I was actually wearing cotton, not wool or knit. I don't know why but I was greatly discouraged by it.

I looked up at Anna, observing me with great interest and anticipation. How could I take it back now and say I had nothing to tell her? I couldn't. She would be so disappointed if I elected silence again. Perhaps, I would be disappointed at myself too for, however much she sneered at me and occasionally mocked me too, all in a very chilled playful setting, she was right about one thing.

I had made some kind of progress since my hospital days.

Thus, I made my heart steel and told her.

“His name is Tom”, I looked down at my hands, trying to mentally swap them for his, “I think he knows me.”

 

 

**. . .**

 

**Tom**

I knew Fitzrovia by heart. All its cobbled streets, slippery from the rain, had something to say as I made my way down to _C's and W's_. The narrow twists and turns, as well as the main road, were familiar grounds for both my morning walks and my nightly expeditions. One detached house topped the other. Little apartment blocks tended to embrace each other. So much history and glamour. All the bohemian vibes were calling out to me from centuries away.

My crossbody bag was heavy with books of various sizes and covers, all new purchases from my forever trusted bookshop in Camden. Beautiful second hands some of them, others new and shiny editions. As I walked I could feel the strap slicing through my shoulder, making me crane my neck away from the strain. I couldn't wait to sit down and let it drop onto the floor with a deep sigh, a mug of fresh ground coffee under my nose as soon as I would pick my table at the back. And damn, did I need it, what with all that work I had to do today...

As I rounded the last corner, eager to get inside fast so as to avoid the fresh showers, my eyes fell upon a figure that bore the resemblance of... someone I knew. Someone whose cries I could still hear in my head. 

I paced slower and slower, eventually stopping a good distance away from her.

 _Arabella_...

But could it really be?

 

She looked so very different from the last time I'd seen her, which was, last night but somehow felt longer than that. No well-worn Adidas this time, no baggy trousers and no cherished wool. This fine noon she had turned them down for the roughness of a white cotton sweater that travelled up and concealed her long neck from view and whose sleeves were a tad too big around her skinny arms, a beautiful maxi black skirt lined with silver buttons at the front and biker ankle boots whose laces dangled right and left, unmade. Stupid girl had no coat on.

A sudden gust of wind blew from somewhere behind me. It was sharp and it succeeded perfectly in raising goosebumps all over my skin. It passed right through me and reached her in a flash, making her wrap an arm around her middle protectively, almost blowing all the files and papers she carried, away from her hands.

A lighter breeze followed and caressed its way through her hair, short straight strands flying about in total mayhem. Her skirt billowed in waves around her lower frame.

It took me another moment to realise that she was standing just outside my pub, nervously trying to steal a pick inside, obviously curious about something that had caught her fancy.

The way she worried her lower lip between her teeth, undecided as to whether or not she should go in, was all the motivation I needed.

I forced my legs into a casual strut, shaking my head either side in disbelief, feeling a sudden warmth at the back of my neck regardless of the chill of the day. I smiled to myself, stupidly believing that in some weird sense, she had been looking for me.

 

 

**. . .**

 

**Arabella**

  


“Anna there's... there's something else I should tell you about... probably”, I said hesitantly, giving the back of my neck a little scratch.

“You mean there is more than that? You mean there is more than just him being a complete gentleman, checking on you every single minute, probably even when you weren't looking, then cradling you to his toned and lean and fucking gorgeous body as you cried soppily and then, basically, telling you to call him sometime. Call... him! What is he made of and where do they sell more like him? Damn it, I bet God created him and then broke the mould out of jealousy”, she chirped, putting a hand over her chest dramatically.

“You assume too much”, I grumbled exasperatedly.

“Yes, you surly little sloth, you bet I do. It's all a girl can do in this day and age”, she mused, “Now tell me the something else you wanted.”

I crossed an arm over my chest and stuck my thumb between my lips, considering in silence the consequences of what I was about to share.

“Anna... he knew...”, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes upon saying the rest, “... he knew about the scar.”

When I opened my eyes, her face had fallen a bit, a confused smile quivering its way across her luscious lips.

“What do you mean by that?”.

I shook my head, “He... I don't know if he guessed it or something, but... he knew it was from... from a belt.”

“Did he tell you that?”.

I nodded.

“How could he have known that? Are you sure you didn't say anything to give it away?”.

I nodded again, rolling my lower lip back and forth, “I said nothing. He just knew... and then he was... he was asking me about... Olivier”.

"What did he want to know?". 

I pouted, "How long he was... you know... if he was still around...".

Anna relaxed back in her chair, tiny shadows of hard thinking slicing through her usually vivacious gaze.

After a moment of silence that dragged on endlessly, the woman across me spoke again and rest assured, I did not like either her grim tone nor her most likely spot on assumption.

“Arabella, have you considered the possibility that he might have gone through something similar?”.

I swallowed hard and directed my eyes towards the window.

“That he might have been on the receiving end of something as barbarous as you have? It is not far from impossible, you know...”.

I didn't want to entertain that possibility. I just didn't. It hurt me too much even though I recognised it was sympathy towards a complete stranger. My brows furrowed, then softened. But then again... wasn't _I_ a stranger to him too when he welcomed me into his arms and told me...

 _Stay where you are, please_...

Who was comforting who? 

That was all I could think about when I left Anna's office that day, for better or for worse. Tucking my hands into the nice and large pockets of my skirt, I tried to picture him in my position, tried to swap places and see through his eyes. My tattoo itched violently, my scar burned like fire as ink and blood swam into one another, as leather was raised above eyesight and then snapped through the air down on the back of a small boy, too tall for his age but too weak to defend itself. A boy that once rode his bike into a pile of autumn leaves.

“Fuck...”, I winced at my own thoughts, terrified even by the mere fact that I was having them.

“Faigh muin”, I cursed again as my phone buzzed in my little purse.

The digging out process was accompanied by a furious concert of curses and sighs. An old lady passing by actually raised her eyebrows at the obscenities leaving my mouth.

“What?”, I answered once I fished it out, immediately recognising the number on the screen.

“People usually say hello”, my boss, the dick, mused.

“It's Saturday.”

“Do you forget your manners on Saturdays?”, he mocked.

“No, I'm just busy right now, Sir. Is it important? Do you need something?”, I tried to urge him as politely as I could, the idea of beaten boys and cries for help still swirling in my head.

“Yes, actually. If you can, please stop by and pick up Brook's manuscripts. He couldn't wait till Monday. He said he wanted you to read it all before you two meet up next week.”

I dragged the earpiece away and cursed under my breath.

“Okay, Sir, be right there”, I gritted out, trying not to lose it in the middle of the street.

An hour later I was walking down Fitzrovia, the little bohemian village which I held on high regard for its fashion, its provocative and feet killing cobbled streets and of course, the little vintage coffee shops with excellent tea and the delicious muffins. However antisocial I am, I occasionally like to walk amongst people, just to remind myself what it feels like to be normal and intact.

And that was when it caught my eye. I stopped walking and scowled at it with no shame whatsoever. An ugly looking, sort of dilapidated, greyish brown pub that smelled of greasy food and wooden beer caskets. What was _that_ doing here, in my beautiful, flowery, out of another century Fitzrovia, stinking of industrial bricks and metal and... drunk people? Happy people. Absurd. 

Unfortunately I couldn't see much through the window and sincerely, didn't see any point in doing so, until my eyes widened in miraculous surprise at the sight of an old, filled up with books up to the very last shelf library at the back of the establishment, squeezed into its depths, far from the bar and the stools and the few people that lounged inside.

A crippling curiosity ceased me, an unexpected urge to venture inside and take a closer look. I hadn't felt like doing that in ages, all ounces of spontaneity having gone completely out of me with the coming of adulthood and well... marriage... divorce... hospital forms... shrinks... a job I didn't enjoy too much...

I was overthinking it before I had even started thinking about it and just as soon as my curiosity was peaked it declined and disappeared. I had to go home anyways. Read that man's bloody manuscripts, make notes, mentally prepare myself for small talk and conversation over poetry I knew I would not like...

Someone passed behind me, carrying a light breeze with them that had me shivering like crazy. And with that breeze...

Musk. Splash of ink. Patch of leather. Tang of orange. My salty tears. A home within a man. Fire and sweat.

I sniffed the air for good measure, my jaw dropping, eyes frantically flicking from one random place to another.

I turned my head expectantly towards the street, searching for a familiar face but none resembled his. No one's head was crowned by locks of gold. No one's wrinkled eyes bore the kindness of his own. No one's beard could flare up the whisker burn against my forehead as well as his did. He was not there. I had only imagined him... again.

 _It's alright_ , I said to myself, hugging my files and my papers against my chest in hopes of drawing some comfort. It was about time for me to take my leave. I swirled around, my skirt swirling prettily with me...

Blue velvet. A flutter of golden lashes. Burn. Pink lips drawing back to reveal razor sharp white teeth... 

“If I were you, I'd give this place a shot. It might not look like much on the outside but I promise, step inside and you'll feel right at home.”

 

 

 

 

 


	8. The Lion's Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! I hope you are all doing great this fine morning, noon, afternoon or night, whatever it is in your homeland right now. Since my program has changed a little for the second semester, I can actually devote time to write during the weekends and, if I'm not too tired, Friday nights, which means that hopefully, this month will be full of good updates, for this story at least. I'm not too sure about the other, because the writing style and the sizes of the chapters are different, but we'll see. The important thing is: I will be writing!!!
> 
> So, without further due, here is a little introduction to Tom and Arabella's official shared time. I will refrain from calling it a date for now. I decided to section their time in short chapters because it will be easier to, first, have them chat about this and that without the narrative getting too confusing and, second, because with short chapters I can control the flow of information better and make it more meaningful. 
> 
> Some references: The Pied Piper of Hamelin is a children's story, from the 1300's? I think? And Starry Night refers to Van Gogh's famous painting. 
> 
> Thank you so much for loving my little gem!

**Arabella**

 

Dear readers, I can't make you understand what spells his voice cast on me. His lips parted and music came out and like the _Pied Piper of Hamelin_ , he drew me deeper and deeper, out of all that was familiar, outside the city walls of my heart, like a hypnotised rat. 

Dear readers, I can't even tell you the exact moment I nodded and said okay. The moment I smiled and took a step forward, as he opened the door for me.

Dear readers, I can't even describe respectfully, properly the establishment I entered because I only saw him. Him, walking in like he owned the place. Him, smiling and greeting all the waitresses, making them lose it a little when they met his eyes. I wagger the nurse who dragged him out of his momma's womb divorced her husband shortly afterwards because he smiled at her too. Him, waiting for my wobbly and cold feet to carry me towards him, at the far back, close to the library I so liked. Him, pulling my chair for me before he sat down himself. Him, letting that leather bag of his fall onto the floor with a thump. Him, calling to God, as his lips formed the dirtiest O I had ever seen. Him, massaging his broad shoulder roughly to get the circulation going.

Him, grinning at me and saying, “That thing was so damn heavy.”

I blinked rapidly but was not entirely shaken out of my daze. The music of his aura still tickled my senses. Mellow like the expression in his brow. Jazzy like his baritone voice. Soft like his hands.

“Wha- what's inside?”, I asked, not realising I had actually spoken until he answered.

With a wink, he cajoled, “Treasure, darling”. Then he rubbed his palms together and suggested, “I trust we're having coffee?”.

“Yes, please.”

I placed my files on the dark wooden table and fumbled with the buttons of my skirt, my mind blank, empty, thirsty for him to fill the silence I was bound to bring. 

  
  


**. . .**

  
  


**Tom**

 

 

****

“If I were you, I'd give this place a shot. It might not look like much on the outside but I promise, step inside and you'll feel right at home”.

I'm not one for cliche introductions.

 _Oh, Lord, Arabella, I cannot believe we are meeting again so soon_.

_I'll be damned, ain't this the little swallow?_

_Hi, sorry, hey, it's... it's Tom, dunno if you remember me._

No. Not my style at all. Before she turned around with the wind, I was battling between two options that, at least in my head, sounded great. The one I ended up choosing and the actual truth of the matter.

_I dreamt about you last night. Yeah, believe it or not. I was painting Starry Night on your breasts and stomach._

In the end, I think I chose wisely.

Her eyes widened, bright and alert, nevertheless, as if I had made the other choice after all. For a bit, I thought I had. I thought it had slipped my mouth before I had the chance to do some filtering. Seconds later, her pale lips parted, her brow quirked. I watched it happen slowly, meticulously taking in all expressions, all the little alterations of her face. I knew she would be visiting me again tonight, in my dreams. And then I heard it. The soft and scared beckoning of the swallow, whose cry is drowned by the winter winds.

“Tom...”.

The syllable held no hints of surprise, only instant recognition as if I had been in her head just as much as she had been in mine.

“Arabella...”.

I was half expecting her to cast her eyes down, same as the night before, in a show of deference and respect, but she did not. This time she held my gaze, earth meeting sky. Gradually, the street noise was muted out. The roar of thunder above our heads was foregrounded above all else. The strangers' gaits slowed down as I briefly glanced left, then right, my eyes not moving in tandem with my brain, as I dragged them back to her face. I almost heard the swooshing sound of her saliva as she sucked her lower lip into the cave of her mouth and then let it go with a wet pop.

I did not believe in God. But I was about to.

And I can tell you the exact moment She smiled down on me.

“Are you off to work?”, I said, indicating towards the mysterious files she was clutching at for dear life. The paper had wrinkled at the corners.

She nodded negatively.

“Are you going home?”.

She nodded positively.

“That's a shame. Do you have to?”.

She nodded yes and after a deep breath, added, “Papers to work on.”

I saw my chance and I seized it, “You don't have to be alone though. I have work to do as well”. I tapped the side of my bag, “Come inside with me. Let's work together. It will be quiet until six.”

She worried her lip for a little bit longer and I was struggling not to lose my hope as the dark shadows of apprehension turned her eyes black and cloudy.

“Okay.”

 

**. . .**

  
  


**Arabella**

  
  


I was pulling my sleeves over my knuckles, my eyes dancing over the hundreds of books on the shelves, all within arm's reach, when a lovely blonde waitress cast a small delectable shadow over our table.

“Ahh, Cynthia, how are you?”, Tom addressed her, diverting my attention towards her.

Cynthia giggled and ran her hand over her belly, which, as I was beginning to notice, protruded a little, “Ay, all nice and dandy, I'd say. This one isnae letting me sleep much but, oh well. Wee bastard'll come out eventually.”

Motherhood makes women stunning, as I have heard. It gives them a supreme glow that is irresistible. A small smile broke out on my lips at the sight of her. She was a beautiful woman, to say the least. Silky strands of fair hair fell below her waist in waterfalls of softness. Her cheeks were as rosy as spring flowers and her blue eyes bore a great resemblance to Tom's, although they were a bit greyish. I focused on her glowy skin. She looked a lot younger than me, though she probably wasn't.

Tom laughed from across the table, a gentle sound that pierced through the air between us and made me shiver from head to toe.

“May I?”, he asked the woman, holding his huge hands up in uncontainable anticipation, the smile on his face equal to a child's. Affection rolled off him in waves. 

Cynthia giggled again and shimmied closer to him, lacing her hands at the small of her back.

I watched in silent contemplation, my heart exploding within the confines of my dusty ribcage as Tom, Tom the man, Tom the artist, Tom the stranger, Tom with the big smile, placed his hands, as gently as waves licking at sandy shores in the morning, on the woman's rounded belly and waited, waited for a whisper from beyond.

“Oh my God, there he is!”, he exclaimed after an agonizing moment, the smile getting bigger than I thought possible, “He's so little but so strong. Good lad.”

My breathing shook as I let it out, my arms sweating inside my baggy sleeves. Were they husband and-.

“That's what Chad thinks to”, Cynthia nodded frantically, batting her eyelashes prettily, “Baby says, this one is going to be a big big boy.”

 _Oh thank the heavens, they are not_.

“I hope he doesn't give you too much trouble”, Tom wished and turned back to me with the same smile on his lips, “I haven't introduced you yet, apologies. Cynthia, this is Arabella. Arabella, Cynthia, pillar of this honourable establishment and wife to a very good friend”, he gestured between us.

For some reason, I pouted at the fact that he had nothing extra to say about me. No information to link to my person.

“Nice to meet you, Arabella. That's such a beautiful name. Is this your first time here? I haven't seen you before.”

I cleared my throat and sat up a bit straighter, “Yeah, hi, no. No, first time here.”

 _Polite as always, aren't you?,_ I chided myself. Why did I always have to sound so stony?

“I'm sure you're gonna love this place!”, Cynthia said charmingly and procured a little notebook from her back pocket, “So, what can I get you two?”.

“What are you having, girl?”, my breath hitched in my throat when he said it but I managed to cough a bit to conceal it.

 _Girl, rolled r, voiced l despite his Britishness, an octave lower just because he enjoys the effect it has on me_.

_The girl will have a pack of ice for her lightheadedness._

_“_ Ahm... I wouldn't say no to a hot brew”, I suggested shyly, daring to look up at him as he watched me closely, blue oceans flooding inside me through every hole in my-.

_Damn it, that came out wrong._

“Absolutely. We've got a lot of flavours to choose from. There's vanilla, salted caramel, nuts, almond and chocolate.”

“Ahm, vanilla would be nice, thank you”, I said, completing my order.

“Tommy, you?”.

 _Tommy?_ I couldn't help the furrow of my brow.

“Same, please.”

Fire reign down from the sky, I had no clue why my stomach fluttered so much in response to him ordering the same. 

“Splash of milk anyone?”.

“No, no milk-”, I started saying, only to realise that my voice was caressed by another's.

“-no milk at all, just a few-”, Tom's grin intensified as we finished the sentence together.

“- sugar cubes.”

Cynthia burst out laughing at the both of us, putting a hand over her mouth to stifle the rest, “Oh wow. It looks like you found your soulmate there, Tommy. Coffees coming right up.”

She was still trying to quiet herself down as she left us.

I was red as a poppy and since I wore zero makeup, there was no coverage at all to help me hide my colours and a little devil peeking behind my left ear, told me that the man across was enjoying it more than he should.

 

 

 

 


	9. The Bitter Brew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys! Again. Ahahah. I went too far this weekend, didn't I? I don't think anyone's complaining though, right? Honestly, I hadn't written in so long and now it just pours out of me in waterfalls. I don't know how to stop and I have to because tomorrow I'm going back to my lectures and my seminars and I can't be writing alongside! But I want to! I am so torn, I feel I'll split myself in half. 
> 
> Anyways, this is the last chapter for the weekend, unfortunately, but I will be back. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for leaving comments. I love you all!

**Tom**

  
  


 

“You deceived me.”

“Excuse me? What?”.

She was looking at the books on her right, squinting at a few titles as a means of distraction from her flustered state. People, it was feasible and natural in this world, could have the same preference in something, coffee very well being one of them. And yet for some reason, it brought such a vivid heat upon her pale flesh that I almost blushed myself. Still, her adorable state did nothing to distort my smirk.

“I definitely took you for a milk person”, I elaborated, balancing my chin on a wrist.

“Oh. Em, yeah, I... I was actually. Once upon a time”, she fidgeted, “Not anymore.”

“What happened?”.

“Just... wanted it bitter after a while.”

 _Life or coffee?,_ I thought morosely but did not let it show on my features.

“Bitter, but with a generous dose of vanilla. I like that.”

She shrugged and smiled politely, “It tastes nice.”

I hummed, contemplating my evidence. It is a firm belief of mine that one can tell a lot about a person based on their coffee choices. What her shift from white to black indicated were surrender and decay. Once sweet and lovely she could have been and then... Did cruel life decide she had had enough and turned her dark and bitter and never quite smiling fully ever again? It was a possibility to be entertained.

What did I have to do to make her smile? Why was it so important to me that she did? I barely knew her. But my mind wouldn't stop working on a way to see the two straight lines of teeth peeking behind her pale lips. What story could I tell? What funny face could I pull?

“You know, Jeremy, who you met yesterday, likes cappuccino with whipped cream and marshmallows on top, not to mention a buttload of sugar.”

Her eyes widened again, just like they had outside on the pavement and, was that a little smile I saw curling her lips?

“No way”, was all she said before she blushed and looked away towards the books again, taking her smile with her. But I saw it. It was there, faint and shy, but it existed.

“Cross my heart”, I swore and chuckled on. She joined me, although quieter.

With the corner of my eye, I saw Cynthia approach, all happiness and sunshine as she always was, with our coffees in hand. When she reached us, she winked at me in our own conspirational manner and set them down carefully. A small tray with brown and white sugar cubes was set in the middle shortly afterwards.

“Thank you ever so much, Cynthia”, I beamed, staring into the blackness of the brew as if naked sirenes were swimming in it.

“Thank you”, Arabella squeaked out, crossing her arms over her chest, her hands coiling around her sides like vines. 

“No problem, sweeties. If you need a refill just put your hand up!”, and with that, she swirled around and went back to her beloved kitchens and tea sets.

“So...”, I initiated jovially, dropping a single cube into my mug, “... what are all these?”. I nudged my head towards the orange and yellow files in front of her and the few papers sticking out.

I heard her take a deep breath in through her nostrils and when I glanced up to see why the apprehension, she was staring at the files fearfully.

“I... I'm supposed to read them, make notes and pretend to be happy about it”, she said dryly.

“Why?”.

Another deep breath, a probable emblem that she was trying to draw courage to speak, courage to communicate, courage to say the right thing.

“I edit for a publishing company. It's... it's my job”, she paused to scratch the back of her neck and then waved dismissively towards the files, “These are the poet's manuscripts. I'm meeting with him next week, before... yeah.”

“And you have a pretty terrible feeling you won't like what you read?”, I guessed.

She shook her head yes, a few caramel strands falling in front of her eyes, which she immediately tucked back into place, behind her ears.

“Who's the guy? Do I know him?”.

She squirmed a little closer to the table and picked up two sugar cubes. She dropped them into her mug and started steering the contents with a little spoon.

“His name's Justin Brook.”

“Haven't even heard of him”, I arched my brows.

“Really? He's all over Instagram.”

I snorted, “That's probably why. I don't do social media, except if it's for advertising the studio.”

“You don't?”.

I shook my head no, “Pointless.”

She seemed to be thinking for a moment, thinking hard and staring, staring into the unopened depths of those files.

“Yeah, you're probably right”, she decided and slumped back on the chair, her arms over her chest in a flash, eyes away from me, disoriented, lost.

“Arabella, are you cold?”, I said gently.

I knew she wasn't, of course, but I had to dig my way into approaching the subject of her being so disconcerted. So uncomfortable. So... not herself. I knew I was the cause of it, how could I not? My very presence must have been such a peculiar, unfamiliar thing to her. Maybe she was still trying to figure out why she agreed to sit with a stranger in a rough looking place, drinking coffee and talking about work when she could have been huddled under millions of blankets, crying alone and helpless. Perhaps, she was only just now realising that she liked the company after all and the new sensation of doing something so relaxed with someone else was just a bit tough to accept in one go.

“No, I'm okay. It's just...”, she left the sentence unfinished.

“Let me rephrase”, I proposed, propping my elbows on the table, opening my hands and chest up to her so that she could see I had nothing to hide, “What scares you?”.

**. . .**

  
  


**Arabella**

  
  


I shook my head pathetically, trying to empty the confused contents of my brain so that new words, phrases and emotions could flow right in. But it was impossible. Impossible to sit still and face him. Impossible to say, _no absolutely not, why would I be scared_. He had already read through me once. Twice. He could do it again and there wouldn't be a damn thing I could do about it.

He was fixing me with that compassionate stare, the soft blue. The edge of a harbour making its appearance through thick clouds. The hot stone in the hearth that emanated the smells of sliced wood and gentle rain, ancient love and understanding.

His posture was confident, open, inviting. I could almost imagine his heart beating fast and hard, could almost see it bumping against the thick wool that adorned his lithe muscle. And how warm it was, that little alcove from his chest up to the crook of his neck. And especially if he bent over me... so safe. Whisker burn on my forehead.

 _Let me back there, please. You said it's always warm there_.

“I don't... I don't usually do things like that...”, I confessed, shifting in my chair yet again.

His embracing laughter ghosted in the air between us, “You mean you don't usually go for coffee and chill with your tattoo artist, who you met yesterday?”.

I couldn't help but giggle a little at his humour. I nodded, my lips puckering prettily. But then, as dark thoughts seized my heart and began to choke me, I returned to my familiar moroseness.

“I don't... I don't usually break down in the arms of strangers either, but, oh well...”.

Now it was his turn to turn a shade paler. His smile never faltered though. His optimism never wavered. That man was a source of light that attracted all scared and slippery creatures of the dark and humid earth. He attracted me at least, pulled me effortlessly towards him, letting me feed off his warmth.

“I'll have you know it was my honour and pleasure to have you break down in my arms.”

I inhaled sharply, my eyes meeting his instantly, his burning irises working like magnets, luring me in.

My lip quivered, “Wh-why?”.

“Because it means something in you told you that you could. A little piece, I don't know, a tiny shard inside you, trusted me enough ”, he paused, while I held my breath, my heart hammering in my chest, my coffee still untouched, “Am I wrong?”.

I shook my head no a lot faster than I had anticipated in fear that if I took my sweet time he would understand otherwise. I lowered my gaze to my lap and pressed my lips together, anxious to find something, anything to back my argument.

Futile attempt. Pointless. I was an imbecile in front of him.

“But I don't know you”, I ended up saying. Stupid, I'm more than aware, “And you don't know me. How did I... how did we...”, I left my sentence unfinished, as was my habit these days.

I pressed my knuckles against my cheek and cowered in my seat, my arm embracing my chest tightly. His damn beautiful eyes were undressing me and my shuttered heart could not decide if she liked it or not.

I did not see his expression change but I did hear it in his tone. He spoke considerably quieter, his eloquence impeccable and his accent, even though British, distinct and pleasant to the ear. For the life of me, I dared to look up at him, at his arched, considerate brow and scruffy beard, rosy cheek and sharp jaw that danced as he talked.

“We know more about each other than you think, girl. You know I'm Tom. I work in a tattoo studio on Margaret street. You know I probably like Jeremy, even though he can be challenging. You know that, for me, coffee is not coffee if it's not straight black. You know that my favourite design, my best work is on your body right now. You know I like to be friendly with everyone. I just put my hands on a pregnant woman's belly for crying out loud. You know I have a deep appreciation for this pub even though it doesn't look like much. You know that the treasure in my bag is probably an insane amount of books. You know that when I was seven I crashed my bike into a pile of leaves and that my Da' had to come to my rescue. You know I'm a crappy singer though I do like to boast otherwise. And you know...”, he offered me his hand, palm up on the table but with no demand for me to touch him, “... you know that despite your past experience, you have nothing to fear from me. You might not know how you know it but you know it's true.”

I closed my eyes, letting his words sink in. Within an afternoon and a morning I had learned that much about him, all of it important information about a person's life, if we were to look at it from a general point of view. So what was stopping me?

I opened my eyes and focused on his hand, mentally whimpering at the memory of how soft it had been. Now as I looked at it, a strange process of more information gathering began, whereby I deduced that he was, most likely, a man of sensitivity. His skin although soft, was a bit red between the fingers, a possible sign that the winter cold affected it harshly, dried it up. His nails were fixed, clean and smooth. No ink blotches or residue in spite of the fact that he was an artist. The pads were a little textured, the only indication that he was a man of the arts. Long thumbs. I've heard somewhere that this indicated excellence in sexual activities. 

My own hand twitched at my side, though I moved it not an inch. Instead, I detached the other one from my cheek and, still under the spell of his words, moved it towards his. He did not lurch to grab me nor did he urge me on to go faster and when at last our fingertips lightly touched, I felt warm and safe again, as if the other customers were not even there, surrounding us, as if there was no past and no future, just the present. And the present, like a living being, wanted me to push my barriers down and touch him. Know him. 

I wanted to touch him. I wanted to know him. Here. Right now. In this pub that he seemed to like so much. 

After the first contact had been made, my hand easily slipped over his, my skin feeling every faint line from the bases of his fingers all the way down to his mount of venus. The veins on his delicate wrist were bluish and a little strained. 

My lips curled into an unexpectedly wide smile, my overly warm and blooming heart propelling a childish giggle out of my lungs that I did not recognise as my own. 

I looked at my hand, nestled over his, and the heat underneath my cheeks exploded into dark colour. 

“There she is”, his velvety soft voice reached me, “Nice to meet you, girl.”

 

  
  


 


	10. The Taste Of Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have been writing notes and learning them by heart. Instead, I wrote this. Lovely. Oups, I did it again! (insert snazzy instrumental). My little cuties are faaaallliiiiiiing! Falling and falling! Bang! 
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore their rights belong to their respective owners. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the patience, for the kudos and the lovely comments!
> 
> Enjoy!

** Arabella **

 

I hadn't felt like a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl in a long time. However, as we sat opposite each other, giggling over our coffees, warming our hands through a reassuring though not oppressive touch and talked and listened about what we knew of one another, I was involuntarily transported back to the time I wore short skirts and sundresses. Back to the time I treated my lips to cherry chapstick and winked at the prettiest boy in class. Back to my time in Paris, where I strolled about the streets with my girlfriends, struggling to convince them that I would love one man and one man only in my life...

“You forgot something”, I reminded with a broad smile that made my jaw ache. 

“What that might be?”. 

My fingers twitched over his wrist, slightly tickling at his networks of toned veins, “I also know your mum is from London and your dad from Scotland and that your Scottish accent is rubbish.”

I wasn't expecting him to laugh with me or even to grace me with one of his magnanimous smiles. I wasn't attempting to appear funny or clever, much less flirtatious. I was a snob who was trying to keep the conversation going, otherwise, I'd fall into insufferable silence and then he would have to step in. And, my God, did I shiver every time he took the lead and spoke the most...

“Well, there's that too”, he affirmed between giggles, his spidery fingers elongating, coiling around my wrist tenderly, almost fearfully. 

He took a sip from his dark coffee and picked up his narration where he'd left it off. 

“And I know you're Arabella McArthur. Arabella, like that Arctic Monkeys song. I know you're from France and Scotland. I know that you've lived in Edinburgh. I know that, unfortunately, your dad is not with you anymore. I know you called the studio on Monday at precisely 4:50 asking for swallows. I know you have one of the calmest, sweetest voices I've ever heard. I know you bite your lower lip too deeply when you're thinking hard. I know you're shy. I know you're an editor. I know that you're probably going to have a pretty hard time with that Justin Brook. I know you're wearing a spinal vest. I know you have a scar that stretches around your waist. I know...”, he hesitated for a moment and seemed to be holding his breath, “... I know you've been treated badly and I know that the mere fact infuriates me. I know that you're scared. I know that part of you immensely doubts what you're doing in a pub with a man twice your age, who you only met yesterday. But I also know that you like your coffee same way as I do and that when you smile, something happy and heavy and tantalizing twists my guts. I know that you're beautiful and I know I want more of that beauty in my life. By your leave, of course...”. 

By the time he was done, I was left breathless and, surprisingly enough, I was yearning for more. More words? More praise? More flowery descriptions of how he liked my beauty? Call it what you will. Where there's the ambiguity of attraction, it's all open to interpretation. 

“I also know you shared some information with me that you normally wouldn't and for that, I truly thank you...”, he added as an afterthought but I shook my head dismissively, my belly warming up from the thoughts of him embracing me as I was, broken and lost, of admitting me into the homeliness of his body as if I was a valued guest at his dinner table. 

“What?”, he inquired in a quiet tone, picking up on my denial immediately. 

I shook my head again, apprehensive of what I was about to confess. Despite it, I spoke, because deep within me, past the trauma and the fear of the new, of getting used to a whole other person, from transforming him from a stanger to a loved one, I knew that I wanted something from him. I just couldn't figure out what yet. 

“Your hands are soft.”

**. . . **

  
  


** Tom **

  
  


“Is this why you told me?”, I asked bravely, my intention, to push just a little bit further. To request a small yet significant amount of information, a few more lines, a few more stanzas from the verse of her life. Then, I would be better able to fill the gaps in between.

She nodded yes, her chocolate eyes briefly darting towards me. I couldn't salvage the urging smile that broke out on my face. It pierced the thick layer of my beard and shone through before I could stop it. 

“Did it feel nice?”. 

Her cheeks caught fire. 

“Did... what... feel nice?”, she stuttered. 

“How I touched you.”

Her lips parted to draw in a long deep breath. Her hand began to tremble on top of mine. For a minute, I thought she wouldn't answer me. I thought I'd pushed it too far, that I was playing a dangerous game, sure to make her turn away from me and never look back. I was already starting to entertain the horrible possibility, my other hand tucked into my pocket where I had my wallet. I would pay for her coffee and she would leave. Running. Never looking back.

“It was so different”, her voice was no more than a shaky whisper. I doubted I had actually heard her speak. 

To search her eyes was my only exit, my only way to find my answers but she refused to look at me. I knew what she meant but I wanted to experience it through her, discover what it felt like to admit something like this so bravely. The abused do not often admit openly. The abused deny that they trust. And yet she trusted me.

“Different... in a good way or...”.

Another deep breath on her part, one that she did not release until the shameful words were out of her mouth.

“I... I... Tom...”, a shiver went through me at the sound of my name caressing her hesitant tongue, “... I felt... I felt really nice...”.

“Arabella...”. 

She turned slightly towards me, her eyes fixed on our hands.

“It's alright to say that”, I affirmed gently, “I hope you know that.”

She nodded, agreeing, and with a sigh, withdrew her hand from mine. 

“We should probably start...”. 

At first, I didn't understand what she was talking about. I could only concentrate on the empty space above my hand. There were no rays hitting it, no points of light massaging peace into my complexion. My hand was just a hand. I felt the coolness of the atmosphere and frowned, convinced that this loss couldn't be right. This function was wrong. I was meant to hold. That's what I was born to do. My calling was centred around the work I could produce with my hands. But now that they had nothing to touch, no one to console, no canvas to paint upon, I began to wonder, what was my place in all this?

I was about to reach out as serenely, as languidly as I could master, and capture her hands in mind once more for this felt wrong. It felt imprecise, this distance, this withdrawal. I'm a man of extreme detail, insufferable meticulousness. Ambiguity I cannot abide with. It belongs only in books. 

I was about to reach out to her, but, as if by some divine instruction, as if she had heard my very thoughts echo all around us, she fixed me with her chocolate seas, crucifying me in my seat. She sighed, long and heavy, reassuring and coffee scented. Her lower lip proceded in protruding in a pouty expression of sadness. Her brow quirked in question. She winced from some memory I was unaware of.

A gasp later, she raised both her shaking hands, cold and lonely, and reached out to _me,_ apologies cascading down her neck onto the wooden table until they spilt all over my lap.

“I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I can't... I wasn't ready... I'm not, I need more, I'm sorry...”.

I grasped her fingers in haste, mine sneaking underneath hers to bring them closer to my source of warmth, my thumbs going over the roughness of each knuckle, tracing them, understanding them, discovering all the things she had done this morning and beyond this morning. She could have washed the dishes with cold tap water, knocked on a door, sliced the skin with the edge of sharp paper, fought to escape her abuser even in the lands of her dreams. I wanted to know everything at once. All that she had done before me. I gripped those fingers tighter as she apologised with her eyes. I brought them to my lips and pressed a kiss between her indexes, scratching them with my beard. They tasted like home and smoke. Was I imagining things? She breathed quieter now and stopped apologising. The blizzard in her eyes turned to light snow and I saw thousands of dreams sparkling in them. She tasted like home and smelled like vanilla and spring flowers and I am not excluding the possibility of seeing illusions, but I am willing to bet, I was not.

“I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm like this...”.

I shushed her softly, silently bidding her not to pity herself, not to reduce her state into mere madness. This meant something. Her reaching out to me. This meant something. Her giving into me with such need.

“It's alright”, I promised and lowered her hands to my coffee, manipulating them so that she could cup and hold the mug for more warmth. My hands never left hers. I cupped them too and together we held the small container as if it was a newborn child.

“This is insane... I only met you yesterday”, she whispered with closed eyes, “But... this is insane”.

“I'd say it's fate”, I interjected jovially.

A smile stretched across her lips.

“Who are you?”.

I studied the tiny paths of veins that crawled over her rosy lids. My eyes fell to her lips next, parted and almost expectant as they were.

“Who do you want me to be?”.

Her pale skin bloomed red. Life returned inside her for those brief, unguarded moments.

“Can you be... Tom?”, she suggested shyly, bottom lip caught between teeth, “Can you be Tom? Because I don't trust myself to be Arabella.”

I nodded, even though she did not see it, “How about you be _girl_ for now? We'll get to Arabella soon.”

She nodded, “I can't explain what's happening.”

“Neither can I”, I admitted, "Isn't it wonderful?"

She snuck her thumbs out of my grasp and twitching a bit here and there, she topped my own. The soft pads flicked over my skin like the touch of silken sheets. I felt my heart growing heavier, filling with some liquid, some poison that increased my palpitations. I wanted more of it.

“Is this what it feels like?”, she spoke, her eyes opening dreamily.

“What do you mean, girl?”.

“I can't explain what's happening but I feel like I can be _girl_ with you. I feel like I can reach... I don't know... like I can find me again. Is this...”, a pained wrinkle creased between her brows, her voice dropping to a rasp, “... is this trust?”.

Since we were talking in whispers, in clandestine hushes, while burning and burning from the heat of the mug on our fingers, I thought it was only wise to preserve the secrecy for this answer too, regardless of how much the question pained me. 

Girl, what have you been through?

“Yes.”

 

 


	11. Add The Sugar And The Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, my notes are on the other side of the room, silently judging me for my negligence. Shakespeare's bones are rattling in wrath right now, ehehe. But I can't help it. I am also fighting a sudden cold at the moment and writing this little piece was my only balm for the night! Again, like the previous chapter, there was no planning whatsoever. I wrote it on a whim, hohoh. Sorry if it makes no sense. I generally don't plan much as a writer. 
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore their rights belong to their respective owners. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting! It is always nice to hear your thoughts and answer questions! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Arabella**

  


“Yes”, he said determinedly, his firm reassurance manifested evidently in the gentle waves that rippled over his irises, in the kind arch of his brow. Every time he did it, that brow quirk, this little shift that disturbed the straightness of the little ginger hairs, heat would flash at the back of my neck and this immediate urge to pass out would overtake me. Corny, yes, I know, but truthful nonetheless.

I nodded obediently. Yes. I could trust him. Tom the tattoo artist. Tom the man. Tom who got excited with pregnant women's belly bumps. I _wanted_ to trust him, which was far more important than the affirmation of my capacity to do so.

I smiled at him, not knowing why. I simply felt nice. There was nothing poetic about it. Nice is all it was. Nice was essential and I can't begin to list all the reasons why to you, ladies and gentlemen, young or old. Nice is crucial, especially for people like me.

“I don't want to read the files”, I pouted petulantly.

He chuckled reverently, locking eyes with me.

“I know. I don't want to work on my thesis either”, his lashes fluttered sensually as he looked down at our hands and his still hot coffee, “I much prefer this.”

My eyes widened a little, “Thesis? Are you... are you in uni?”.

He nodded, “Oxford this time. Button downs love to have me over. I disturb them so good.”

I blinked in surprise and for the millionth time wondered, _who was this guy?_ Who was this guy who marched into Oxford with his leather bag and muscled, tattooed body, with his lion head and sexy stare, probably terrorizing all the proper and sophisticated old ladies of the teaching staff?

“This time? Wha- what else have you done?”.

He shrugged, his tone not as enthusiastic as before, “I've been here and there. Three years Arts School, one year Drama school, another three years of undergraduate studies in Goldsmiths, then I went to Greenwich for a Master's, and now... Oxford. For a second Master's.”

I blinked again, gaping at him like a foolish half-wit, “Are you an academic?”.

He snorted, “Christ, no. I just like to learn. I'd never give up my studio for snobbish academia.”

“Who _are_ you?”, I stressed and he laughed at me.

“It's kind of excessive, I know.”

“Kind of?”, I questioned, suddenly feeling a little stupid in front of him and his apparently magnificent brain, “What were your studies on?”.

“Well, at Goldsmiths I did the Classics. In Greenwich, I specialised in Greek Philosophy and now I'm working on an essay, as part of my second Master's, on Shakespeare's sonnets.”

I tried my hardest not to shriek in front of everyone. So, as it turned out, Tom the tattoo artist, Tom the man and Tom who liked pregnant women's belly bumps was also Tom the literary genius and expert in multiple fields of academia. Perfect.

“And you're a tattoo artist...”, I muttered.

“Well, yeah. It's my passion. I trust it. There's... power in it. All the others are just a past time.”

“I don't know many people who go into uni for the third time out of boredom”, I said, regretting it instantly.

Jesus, fuck, where did that come from? When did I become so bold?

He laughed that angel laugh of his, squeezing his eyes shut like a kitten.

“I'm a strange guy”, was his only excuse.

I laughed with him, the steam of my vanilla coffee tickling its way into my nostrils.

“And Drama School? I mean I get Arts School, you're an artist, but Drama?”, I inquired shyly, trusting my voice not a bit.

“That was purely for confidence. I wanted to get out of my comfort zone, I wanted to learn how to control emotion, how to practice discipline, so, Drama School was the best option. I... I like theatre too, so...”.

Somehow I doubted he was telling me the truth. This man didn't seem like one to need any classes on how to be confident. He was the embodiment of ease and confidence. I just couldn't wrap my head around it, around him, around his intellect, his depth, his education. His hands...

“Ever considered... acting?”.

He shook his head no, a tiny smile ghosting over his lips, “Nah, I'm too quiet for that.”

Quiet was definitely not the word I would use but I kept that information to myself.

“So... Shakespeare now?”, I suggested, instinctively squeezing the handle on his mug. In response, he tightened his hold on me. That little contact made my heart leap out of my chest. That little contact...

His eyes touched me.

“And you, girl, files”, he raised his brows, nodding towards the bloody papers.

“Do you like the sonnets then?”.

He tilted his head to the side, teasing me by shamelessly licking his lips.

“Yes, I do. How about you?”.

I closed my eyes and breathed the vanilla in as it wafted off in the air, blending in with my breath and his.

“I love them... but we need to work now”.

He sighed and in his sigh, another smile bloomed and the words that followed captured and strongly held my attention, seized my breath and kept it prisoner within my own lungs...

“ _Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, / But bears it out even to the edge of doom. / If this be error and upon me proved, / I never writ, nor no man ever loved_...”.

I could fall so easily for the shapes his lips made as he recited. I could fall so easily for the velvet calmness of his voice, for the breathless breaths between the lines...

I swallowed thickly, “116.”

He winked like the devil and finally let go off my hands. Who told him I wanted them released...

“Now, work”, he instructed and like the obedient, good girl that I was, I took a quick sip from my coffee, briefly inhaled his scent on my hand, composed myself as best as I could and opened the cursed files.

The manuscripts were written in a neat, sort of messy handwriting, their author having refused the convenience of a word document. As I was skim reading the first few pages of poems, I caught Tom with the corner of my eye emptying the contents of his heavy leather bag on the table with a devilish satisfaction that was addictive as it unravelled. 

“What did you study, girl?”, he asked, his interest evident in the happy vibration of his voice.

Initially, he took three academic books out and I watched him with equal interest as he deposited each on the table.

 _Exploring the Language of Poems, Plays and Prose_. Bang.

Bennet and Royle's _Intro to Literature, Criticism and Theory_. Thump.

 _Norton Anthology_ , the monster volume on Early Modern poetry. Sigh.

A battered and torn apart copy of the _Sonnets_... He paused.

He laid the book gently on top of Norton, then opened it carefully to avoid losing any pages. I observed, magnetized, as his expression changed. A grin stretched across his lips as his eyes leisurely squinted at something particular, hooded and desirous. The long fingers that were previously grasping my hands in need were now fondling the yellowy pages, same way as they would tiptoe across a woman's inner thighs. For a moment it seemed like the pages responded by fluttering a little, sighing back to him their want...

“So?”.

“What?”, I snapped out of my daze, fearful of having salivated all over my files like some needy baby. Just for precaution, I licked my lips to make sure it was not the case.

“What about your studies?”.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I... I studied English Literature and Language at Roehampton, in... in Hammersmith but then I... I deviated a bit from all that and did my Master's on French and Italian literature with an internship for editing and translation on the side. Again at... at Roehampton.”

_But how I ended up editing Justin fucking Brook's poetry only God and his angels know._

“My my, that is a lot in one go”, he highlighted, his eyes sparkling deviously. Was that admiration? For me?, “And already employed. How old are you, girl?”.

I swallowed hard, “Twenty four.”

His pupils dilated under the semi-bright light of the pub, “Just as I had suspected. Young and beautiful and successful.”

My breath caught at my throat. He was giving me compliments, I knew that. He was looking at me like he wanted me to feel uncomfortable with them, which he achieved. I was looking at him as if I wanted to accept the discomfort of his gaze on me, that appreciative gaze that lingered and left my brain, my logic, my conscience bare and pliant. He was giving me compliments. So, why did I feel hot tears scorching my eyes?

I shrugged and looked away, dismissing them all, “It's nothing...”.

“No, no, it's not _nothing_. Please, don't diminish it, girl. Look at me”, he instructed softly and I could do nothing but turn to him.

He licked his lips, his bleached jean blue irises burning me gently in a pyre of longing. _For Christ's sake, longing for what?_

“In your twenty-four years of life, you have achieved more than most people. Embrace it and own it, darling, because our education and creative opportunity are all that count in this life and I bet... I bet you have actually done a lot more than what you're telling.”

He was right, of course. I had a few more achievements to boast about but I was not, under any circumstances, going to let him in on them. Why then, how was I okay with him knowing about the one thing I had failed in? The one thing that had scarred me quite literally? Partner choice. Love.

I smiled politely and brought a tentative hand up to my cheek to cool off the stubborn heat, having no idea why I was playfully batting my eyelashes at him. You've probably guessed it by now, I was not in a sane state of mind that day. He had enchanted me, lured me in and destroyed my cognitive abilities. He had reduced me and elevated me at the same time to _girl_. And it was nice, being just that. A girl. And what is more, with a handsome man with pretty wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, whose hands felt like home and his words made my tummy bounce up and down, propelling butterflies upwards into my stomach and injecting warmth downwards, between my legs.

His stare persisted just a few more seconds until he finally decided that I did not intend to share any more information about my person. He huffed in disappointment and winked at me.

“Fine, keep your secrets. But don't think for a second this means I've given up, girl”, he playfully warned, before he put on his glasses and turned to his books, brows already creased in deep thought.

_No, no, no fuck the books, look at me again_ , my brain whined. _Touch me again_.

“How old are _you_?”, I asked on a whim, biting my lower lip to quiet myself down just in case I had more bright questions. 

“Thousands and thousands of years old. Can't you see? I'm a corpse already. Only thing that's left is my huge brain.”

I giggled a little louder than is expected of a lady but he didn't seem to mind it one bit. He only smiled without so much as a glance towards me and attempted to focus on his book. Until I interrupted him again, now truly intrigued.

“Seriously...”.

“How old do you think? Make a guess”, he dared.

This was dangerous ground I was walking on. On one hand, I wanted to be honest but on the other, I did not know how he would take it. Could a man of his sensitivity be offended by something like age?

“I don't know... forty?”.

The minute it was out of my mouth, he gave out a little adorable whine and lifted the Sonnets in front of his face, hiding behind them, shielding himself from my cruel judgements. I saw a few blondish curls sway at the top. He was shaking his head no.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry”, I apologised quickly, but his reaction was so sweet and childish that I couldn't suppress my laughter, “Sorry, it's... it's, oh well, it's the beard.”

He whined louder this time.

“No, I mean, it makes you look older. More sophisticated”, I tried to salvage it.

He lowered the book back down on the table and snorted, “I'll shave the bloody thing off.”

“No!”, I almost shouted, wincing and blushing red from embarrassment.

Moreover, I did not simply shriek like a mad woman, I also reached out as if to touch him, instinctively, something inside me that I could not understand motivating me to rest my hand on his cheek, to scratch the ginger harshness adorning his sharp jaw. And the worst thing of all, the most embarrassing? He noticed.

The atmosphere changed. The molecules stood still and the air turned heavy as if it had turned into another element altogether. Water, fluid and elusive. I felt like I was drowning but not quite. The strange numbing sensation was accompanied by the hummings and mutterings of the other customers in the pub, which I hadn't even noticed existed at all. I was in my amniotic sac, shielded away from awareness until his strong will and steady hand decided it was time for me to be pushed out.   

He caught my wrist in a gentle grip while I was still shocked at my own reaction, and fulfilled my fantasy with slow and tender moves. He pulled me out. The carefully trimmed and shaped hairs tickled and slightly burned the tender skin on my palm as he rested it on his jawline, watching me deeply, learning me through my reactions.

“You think it's harsh?”, he inquired softly, his voice thick and smoky.

I scratched him lightly, wanting more than anything to tear my eyes away but being unable to.

“No, it's... it's perfect.”

His brow quirked, his mouth simultaneously broke out into a heart clenching smile. For some reason, my brain shouted, _you pantie soaker_ , even though I was only feeling warm, not wet. Bloody crazy pheromones, how they reduce us...

I bit my lower lip and withdrew my hand, tucking it close to my heart as if to protect and savour the whisker burn he'd gifted me with.

“Ehm... work, right?”, I suggested. What was it, the fifth time since we had sat down?

He nodded, still smiling, for reasons beyond my simple-minded understanding.

As I was about to bend over my files and start reading them seriously and closely, as I should, I heard him speak again, this time, something distancing and morose, some mellow sense of loneliness mixed in his voice, like an old coat of paint on an already rusty wall.

“Thirty-eight in February.”

I didn't look at him directly as I inhaled sharply, holding the breath in as if he had commanded me to. I just smiled at the scandalously delicious knowledge, and there was probably something, -oh, trust me, I know all too well now how filthy that smile looked-, about it that made him chuckle mischievously.

Fuck. He had managed to unveil yet another one of my secrets. Wrinkles and musk and experienced hands. Age and intelligence. I bit my lip again and this time I did not break eye contact with Brook's poems.

 


	12. Her Vanilla Skin, Her Chocolate Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what's wrong with me. It seems that I will be writing until the 'date' is finally over. It's impossible to stop. I have all these ideas and I'm afraid that if I stop writing and do something else they will flea my head and I would lose a few very good paragraphs. Isn't it insane? 
> 
> The weather in England is finally better! Yey for that! I love you all. Thanks for reading and commenting!
> 
> Enjoy!

**Tom**

  
  


“You think it's harsh?”, I coaxed, holding her petite hand on the side of my jaw.

Her lips parted and in her eyes, a battle appeared to be taking place, a battle between acting oneself and avoiding sincerity. In the end, she chose wisely and due to that same choice, I melted.

She scratched me a little, hesitantly, tentatively, as if she thought she could actually hurt me with her perfectly manicured, almond-shaped nails with their blunted edges and their faint scent of cuticle oil. Had she done them this morning? Why was I noticing? Why did it intrigue me?

We locked eyes and for an instant, those same nails were not scratching at my jaw, but were instead, in tandem with my heart's darkest desires, scraping angrily over the bare land of my back. And this was, admittedly and confessed with a twinge of shame to you all, the first time I thought about fucking her. It sounds crude to anyone reading our story. You wouldn't probably expect me to feel this strongly, you believe this is a romantic story. It's not, not entirely. This is, above all, a human story wherein the characters truly speak when there's no dialogue. That is the social and behavioural background of humanity after all. Thus, in that brief moment of intimacy, my basic instinct, my primary calling was centred on something sexual, something that balanced dangerously between the consciousness of man and the intuition of animal.

This was the first time I thought about fucking her, claiming what I wanted. And this was all initiated by nothing more than a simple scratch under my jaw. But then she spoke to me, she spoke in her shy, sweetly raspy voice that always indicated she did not talk much to others, at least not on a daily basis. And her words, no matter how simplistic, changed my thought. Her voice, her ability to speak, her effort to communicate with me, played with and altered the indicators of my internal clock. She synced me back to her own time.

“No, it's... it's perfect.”

I wanted to fuck her still. But now I also yearned to make love to her and treat her as gently as the finest piece of porcelain. Lay her down in tenderness, exploring her with my mouth, with my fingers, with my eyes. I wanted to force her to use her tongue and talk to me, tell me all her secrets, show me everything, teach me how she worked, what made her tick. I wanted to be human with her, imperfect and sloppy with my words, but precise and focused with my touch.

She withdrew her hand, “Ehm... work, right?”.

I nodded and watched her struggle to concentrate, delighting in the way she fought against squirming in her seat. She knew I had still not completely agreed to do work, hadn't made the mental decision. She knew I was watching her, having batted not an eyelash.

“Thirty-eight in February”, I told her my age since she seemed so very interested and the smile she gave me was lecherous, to say the least.

_Oh, little swallow, what have we here?_

She didn't look at me and went on pretending to read the words all over the papers but trust me when I say this, that smile was filth. Have you ever gotten hard by a smile? A smile with secret knowledge threatening to spill at the slightest curling of a lip?

She liked my age and admired my education and I liked her youth and modesty and there was something so enticingly dangerous in this attraction as made my mind wander off to places it shouldn't.

 _Thesis, Tom, thesis. Control yourself_. _Shakespeare, Sonnets. Do your work. Let her do hers. But, but, but... the Sonnets are about love, the Sonnets speak of beauty and the dark lady, and, fuck,_ My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun _. Stop it._

I shook my head abruptly, wincing affirmatively as if I was trying to convince my own damn self that thoughts like these would only make me suffer in silence.

For the next two hours, we did our work in moderate silence, the conversations around us and the few noises from the kitchen being the only things to break our little bubble of secluded existence. We drank our coffees down quickly, as soon as we had stopped fuzzing around each other, probing for more information, asking all kinds of questions whose answers would string us in the same path.

We asked for a refill sooner than we thought we would and cupped our mugs to savour the warmth, taking a few moments to rest.

After I'd read my chosen Sonnets and discovered a few bits of references that I could include to back up my arguments, it was time to start writing them out. My head worked better if I wrote things down, used my hands as a means of remembering and understanding. For this, I reached into my bag and took out a large black notepad. That's where I kept all my poetry notes.

As I did so, the tiny chain attached to the pendant I usually wore slipped out of my sweater and dangled in the air.

“What's that?”, Arabella asked quietly, noticing it. I couldn't help but wonder if she was speaking low because she somehow understood the meaning and the sacredness of that jewel to me.

I took the pendant between my fingers, rubbing its round and thin sterling silver surface with my thumb. It was a piece of metal with someone's name carved on it. _Helena_. I had no idea who she was but... let's just say she acted like a saint of sorts, in my imagination.

“It's... it's nothing, really, but-”, I considered carefully if I wanted to share this or not for it was a piece of the puzzle that hurt even in the realm of my thoughts.

In the end, I decided to withhold the sad bits and only give her the optimistic side of things, not because I didn't trust her but because I didn't trust myself to keep my composure intact.

“I found it when I was fourteen, on some alley, here in London. It doesn't belong to me but I kept it, look...”, I extended the chain towards her and she squirmed closer to the table to see.

“Helena”, she read slowly, “Did she lose it?”.

“Probably. I would have turned it over to the police but...”.

She tilted her head to the side, “What?”.

I shook my head and shrugged, wetting my bottom lip with my upper, “I found it during a very difficult time in my life, so I kind of felt entitled to keep it. Whoever she is, Helena... She has been a guardian angel ever since.”

Her brows furrowed compassionately. I couldn't begin to imagine what she could possibly be thinking at the moment.

“You think it's weird?”, I joked a little, to lighten the atmosphere but she shook her head no immediately and said nothing else on the matter.

I felt grateful for it and in all honesty, curious as well. She did not question, she did not joke back, she did not tease, not that I had expected her to, what with how adorably shy she was. She accepted the explanation and then went on minding her business as if almost aware that this was painful to me.

_Who are you, girl, and what have you been through and how can I take it away?_

We went back to our work, occasionally stealing fearful glances at one another. I scribbled on my notepad and she fumed over the poems and our noon went on like that, all cosy and comfortable, in a pub I knew she still felt apprehensive about, with vanilla coffees at the side.

How ironic, wouldn't you say? Because we both knew, both sensed that _vanilla_ would rarely be the case with us in the months, in the years to come.

 


	13. The Truth Will Set You Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Insert impeccably morose and sexy sigh*. And... another one. I am really happy with how this one turned out. I actually cried over it a little because of the contents but hey, I promised a tragic past for both of them so, there you have it. A rather large confession from Tom. I suppose in the next chapter I will scandalise you with a confession from Arabella. 
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore their rights belong to their respective owners. The sketch doesn't necessarily look like the model I've chosen for Arabella but if we were to look at it from an artistic perspective we can agree that it does bear some resemblance. And don't forget the art style. Features change from one art style to another. 
> 
> I shall leave you now to swoon all you want while I sleep and plan my next evil move. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Tom**

  
  


“This morning, with her, having coffee.”

-Johnny Cash, _when asked about his paradise_.

  
  


  
  


Well, if I was so grateful for her lack of curiosity or her simple intuition and respect then why did I open my mouth to tell her more? She hadn't pushed me to, I was the one climbing up the stairs of the attic my mind was, getting caught in the spider webs and dirtying my suede shoes with dust. What was this urge to open the chest of memories and hand them to her in little pieces that she could toy with and explore in her own time?

I sighed heavily in reaction to having lost a battle with myself, one that she was currently unaware of and hadn't caused at all. I was eating away at my own guts, chewing them with my own teeth, spitting them out of my own mouth. I wanted to tell her about those times but I was also greatly stricken by the grief and the pain of that period and the thought that these two immaculately knife-sharp feelings could force her heart into melancholy, or even worse, _pity_ for me, me who had gotten along in life mostly out of luck and stubbornness, filled me with extreme apprehension.

Frustrated, I turned the page on my notepad and with a little 0.1 Uni Pin fine liner began to sketch the delicateness of her French nose, the slim fulness of her winter insulted lips and the sharp chin of her Scottish jaw. My hand had been trembling from the strain to keep the words from fatal utterance but now it seemed to be relaxing again, falling into the familiar patterns of disciplinary sketching. I was self-soothing, pouring my indecision into the design until I got it perfect, just as I always liked. Perfection. Detail. Precision. Acute lines, like the welts a whip would leave on responsive skin.

She was taking brief notes on the sides of the papers when I began to speak, busying myself with the sketch so that I didn't have direct access to her beautiful eyes. My story was not one for beautiful eyes only but if I knew her just a bit, she was not just a tempting chocolate sea. She had been scarred, broken, abused, perhaps in ways beyond my imagination. She was quiet thunder but could also be sonorous spring. She would understand.

“I wasn't the easiest to handle as a teenager, you know? I was rebellious, rowdy, uncaring, savage with my words, more often than not, with my actions too. I didn't really care what the world had in store for me, didn't see any point in fighting. I was lost but not the kind of lost that teenagers usually are. I was...”, I stopped and drew in a deep breath, “... I was literally lost.”

She stopped writing and even though I did not meet her eyes, I could sense she was watching me. What she probably saw was a kid, drawing lines on a paper like a maniac, as if all his problems would be solved if he painted his reality correctly.

I shrugged, “Literally lost. I thought I had no talents, thought I was some kind of cursed child that no one wanted and all of that... grim stuff. Like I said, fourteen was a difficult time for me. One night, just like that, I was roaming the streets in Soho, somehow ended up in an alley with some other kids, who were not as lost as me, and before I knew it, they had me down. Bloody nose, doubled over, mugged. Good times. They took everything I had, which wasn't much really. All my life was contained in a rain-soaked rucksack. I was in pain, didn't even have the strength to cry, so I sat down and there it glimmered under the lamp light. I found it behind a dumpster.”

I caught the pendant with my other hand and turned it over a few times, the same way as Alladin polished the lamp to get his wishes from the ginie.

“Sterling silver, hand crafted, probably a gift to this... this Helena. It didn't have the chain then, I added it much later. I shoved it into my pocket, pondering over the best pawning options. I could probably get a few quid out of it. Long story short, I didn't do much thinking because I passed out and next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed, a couple in their mid thirties fuzzing over me. I didn't know them at all. They said they found me in the alley and... Well, anyway. The woman had the jewel in the palm of her hand, said it was in my pocket but the doctors needed to get my clothes off so she kept it for me. She thought it was mine. It wasn't. _I made it mine_. Because this Helena, this guardian angel in the alley, gave me a much needed gift that day”, I paused again, sketch ready and mesilly perfect.

“The couple, Joshua and Alexandra, they... they adopted me in two weeks time, got me off the streets and it wasn't long before they realised I was good with a pen and paper. They got me off my ass, straight into Arts School and that's that.”

I tore the page from the notepad and gently slipped it on top of her other papers.

“For you”, I told her softly but the glint in her eye, when I found the courage to look at her, was even softer. How can something so soft, so gentle and non intrusive as this girl's eyes feel like a blade piercing through my chest, spearing my heart, stubbing it dead?

It wasn't pity that swirled in them. It wasn't the stereotypical warm tear of a woman's breakable heart. It wasn't silent politeness. It was understanding. Just like I had predicted. Now, she knew me better. Now, she could trust me more. 

She looked down at the design for a moment and blushed furiously, her lips opening and closing as if undecided whether she wanted to express herself or not.

 

She traced the face I'd sketched reverently and then brought the same hand up to her face. She seemed unconvinced that this was her and something told me it had nothing to do with my artistic ability.

“It's beautiful”, she voiced the word with a hint of surprise.

She looked at me with brows kneaded together, her expression caught between astonishment and incredible, sweet shyness.

“You _are_ beautiful”.

It was out of my mouth before my very own breath.

Her eyes darted away from me back to the paper, a tiny smile threatening to break her frozen and confused features.

"Were they... were they good to you?", she asked with caution.

"Joshua and Alexandra? Absolutely the best", I affirmed, "They still boast they raised a gentleman."

"They did", she said and from the way she gasped lightly and discreetly hid her face behind her hand, I gathered it was a spontaneous reply, "I mean... you've... you've been nothing but kind and respectful to me and... believe it or not, I haven't... I haven't experienced much of that."

"I don't have to believe it. I know it. I've seen it."

 _That was harsh Tom,_ I scolded myself. However, she nodded affirmatively, biting her lower lip and I got this weird feeling that she was about to laugh hysterically or do something conventionally out of sorts. Similar to these quiet moments in movies where everything is still and then suddenly hell breaks loose.   

"Why...", her melodic voice caressed me, "... why did you tell me? You... you didn't have to tell me."

I turned the page on my notepad back to the references, took a generous sip from my coffee and smiled my best kind smile at her, hoping that it would warm her, make her mentally inch a little closer to me.  

"I wanted to."

"Why?". 

"I trust you."

Her eyes widened a little, "How?". 

I chuckled crudely at her reluctance to accept the simple truth, "I've been around a long time, girl. You came into my life in a vortex of ink and tears and I felt like you should be there. I trust that. It's almost as if Helena gave me another gift", I twirled the pendant between my fingers, "Perhaps, she did."

"How can you... how can you be so sure about me?". 

I winked incredulously, "How can you be so sure about _me_?". 

She shook her head, "I really don't know."

Bitterly, I thought, if she ever had a divine moment in her life. A light, a secret source of light within her to guide her, to teach her to trust, to love, to let go and forgive just like I had. What was this darkness she was plunged into and how could I pierce through it? 

My decision was instant. 

"Here...", I passed the chain over my neck, something I hadn't done for a long time, "... come closer."

"What- what are you doing? I can't, no, please, this is _yours_ ", she pleaded with me once she grasped what I wanted to do. 

"Yes it is, therefore, I decide what I do with it", I scolded softly and bade her to me again, "Now, come here."

She took a deep shaky breath and wiggled closer to the table. 

The luscious scent of her hair reached me, filled my mind with pictures of roses and picnics in Province during the summer season. I passed the chain over her head and leaned back to look at her. 

"There", I marvelled, "Maybe Helena will help you find something too."

She touched the name on the silver tenderly, "Something like what?". 

"Forgiveness."

 

 

 


	14. Human Exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning everyone! I hope you are doing well and have been enjoying the rapid updates. At some point, it will have to come to an end. I have responsibilities and I have neglected them for long. Not that I much minded that, ehehe. But, yeah, the real world has expectations and I need to meet them. 
> 
> Without further due, here is another lovely chapter for you all! 
> 
> I love you very much and appreciate all your ideas and comments so please don't hesitate to send them my way. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Arabella**

  
  


I felt the mild heaviness of the chain grazing the back of my neck. Tom's guardian angel was balanced at the pads of my fingers and as I stared at it, hoping that some ancient inscription would magically carve itself upon the silver to show me the way, I kept wondering...

_Man, who are you and what have you been through and how can I take it away?_

_Something like what?_

_Forgiveness._

Tom the man, Tom the artist, Tom the gentle giant, Tom who sketched my likeness in under four minutes, was also Tom the adopted son of Joshua and Alexandra, two strangers who had found him at the age of fourteen, doubled over in an infamous alley in Soho, his nose bleeding, his dreams crushed and a small token of what was to come tucked into his pocket. His life had been stolen and the pendant helped him claim it back in one night. The thought made my eyes sting but if I was good at anything it was at pulling the marble, placid mask over my face, hiding, always hiding.

His narration was a smart one for he chose just the right adjectives and abstract phrases, added just the right amount of grief and kept his voice incredibly composed even though his pain was practically tangible, that anyone, absolutely anyone would have been drawn into the heartbreaking story, anyone would have believed whatever he gave them. But he couldn't fool me. 

Blame it on my editing skills, blame it on the fact that I've studied the depths of language, blame it on my own experience of people, but the most solid, the most honest evidence of a person's life is harboured in what they choose not to say. Thus, he was Tom, the adopted son, but _why_ was he adopted? Why did he roam the streets of a relatively hostile neighbourhood of London, with all his life contained in a rucksack? Did he not have a loving and warm home to return to? His parents, his biological parents? What about them? What had happened to them? He had said that his father taught him to ride a bike at the age of seven, so whatever happened to them must have happened after that time? Yes, indeed. He was fourteen and on the streets. And how... _how_ did he know about the belt?

All these little bugging questions, the things he said by not saying them, were scratching at the back of my head, yearning to form themselves into words. I wanted to know everything I could about him. I wanted, for no particular reason other than the fact I trusted him, to be sucked into his point of view. It sounds disconcerting but I wanted to take part in the story of his life, be a piece of it, a sequel...

However, I kept it all to myself and believed, accepted what he chose to give me at the moment. The fact that he had shared that much in the first place betrayed, or rather, validated his trust, his sense that he saw a worthy of knowing person in me. I wouldn't risk that just to get to the bottom of things. After all, this was but the second shy time we were sharing time and space and breath and warmth together.

My attention was captured then by a single point of light tenderly gliding over some metallic object behind Tom's head, a little above it. I couldn't tell what it was, but the light was as dense as it was fluid and elusive. I had to squint to make sure it didn't escape. It roamed over the object, -what was it, a pot, a pipe, Tom's halo-, and descended somewhere out of reach. Sun setting over a sea of royal blond curls.

Was Helena giving me visions? Was she pointing towards my possible salvation? I wasn't one to believe in miracles. I didn't believe in saints, in fact, I hated the church with a disgusting passion. But when that light was gone and I drew my gaze back to the oceans of his eyes, I think I might have heard God speak. And he was grinning all the while.

“What is she telling you, little swallow?”.

_Little swallow, shut the fuck up, you... you... just... call me that again..._

I blushed and looked down at my sketched reflection, smiling dreamily to myself. When I looked up again, he had propped his elbows on the table and was much closer than before. I had to hold my breath at his exquisite beauty.

At the time, I refused to acknowledge it, thinking that I was probably going mad, but it was love at first sight, or maybe, love at first tear, for the first thing I had done with him was cry like a newborn, unfamiliar with the change in the atmosphere, reluctant to leave mother's watery estate for the dryness of Earth.

All the Brits I'd met had been disgustingly pale and egg-faced, with a stony blue eye and their noses up in the air, no matter the region, no matter the Northern or Southern land. There was no diversity for me. They all looked the same, walked the same, talked the same even though their accents varied. Of course, that was just my experience. Other people might have been luckier in their findings. All the French men I'd met, on the other hand, were just too much of everything. There was no balance to them, no equilibrium. They were insurmountably passionate, terrifyingly furious when the mood struck. Their appearance exuded a sense of superiority which I could not understand and the only reason I had fallen in love with one was because I'd met him _outside_ France. Again, that was purely my experience...

_And yet..._

I looked and looked and looked at him, struggling to find anything that could throw me off, anything that deviated from perfection but the man's kind face was something out of a Renaissance painting. And if you know your history, you will definitely understand why I compare him to such an era. He was the turning point, the explosion of ideas, the urge to explore, the tantalizing voice in the back of great men's heads to go deeper, to reach further, beyond the horizon, the sea, the sky. His sparse, quirky brow was Dante's Inferno, swift strokes of ginger flames crawling up the bowels of the earth and those flames shielded and guided the revision of the Classics. His warm blue eyes, they went over everything, every tiny detail, every line of history, every tragedy, every philosophical shift. His thoughts were individual. He was a character in the book of a Humanist, seeking enlightenment in the old ways and then adapting to the changes. His lips, pinkish red and constantly licked, were the volta, the turn, in Shakespeare's verse, the objection or the summary of an argument. His lips were made of Sonnets.

I was so tormented, so torn between slapping that perfect face and turning away from him, that I did not completely realise it when the first thoughts of kissing him began to root in the small ligaments of my heart. What was more infuriating than that dilemma was that he knew about it. He knew, _I was certain of it_ , what I wanted. He knew what my heart told me. And he bloody enjoyed seeing me dance on the edge.

I sighed in exasperation, a little whimper escaping my lips before I stationed my arms on top of my files and laid my weary head on them, looking at the front of the pub, towards the bright entrance.

He hummed above me, setting my nerve endings on fire. I felt his hand on my hair and for a horrifying minute, I thought he was going to pull me up and hit me. I know. It was an unfair thought. A terrible imagining that could not possibly reflect him. But I couldn't stop myself from thinking about it. It was a natural instinct, one that had been ingrained into the way I lived. Olivier had made sure of that.

But Tom was not Olivier. Tom was a lost child who had let himself be found. Tom was a man who had let me cry all over his expensive wool sweater. A man who had refused to let me go until I was entirely dormant and soothed. Tom was now tenderly tucking my hair behind my ear, caressing the shell of it with his index. My eyes drifted shut, my pulse slowed down, the customers in the pub stopped existing.

Olivier would have laughed sarcastically at this, he would have seen no humbleness in the pure action of playing with a woman's hair. He would have prefered to play with her body, then her feelings, then her sense of independence. He was not a lost child but a very loved and very spoilt one, for which I often teased him, back in the time when such foolishness wouldn't have earned me a slap but joyous laughter instead. Olivier was a man of means, money, friends, connections but he would have never placed his hands on a pregnant woman's belly, all excited and worried to hear a pulse, to feel a kick. Olivier would have been fine with placing his order and then shushing the woman away. He didn't enjoy chatter or playful whining.

“What's on your mind, girl?”, Tom crooned above me, helping me, unbeknownst to him, to self-sooth.

I sniffled a little and confessed, too far gone into the patterns his fingers drew to care, “I have never met anyone like you before.”

He hummed again, more satisfied now, and did not stop touching me.

“This pleases me”, he purred decisively, the raspiness of his voice resembling the moment when you first wake up in the morning, when your chords are rusty and still asleep. 

My lungs gave out and exploded into a fit of girlish giggles that were impossible to contain. I shook my head and nudged my face into my arms, hoping to hide my shame from his penetrating gaze.

“Sweet, sweet Arabella”, I heard him whisper in an almost loving tone.

“Are you like this with all the new people you meet?”.

A cute ramble reverberated within his chest, “Just the ones I particularly like.”

Why did everything he say reduce me to a breathless wench? So... _he particulalry liked me_... Why did that make me feel so damn good?

“Can I tell you something?”, I asked tentatively, my voice shaking towards the end.

“Anything you want, girl.”

I bit my lower lip and buried my face deeper into my arms, my nose bumping against the papers and the sketch.  

“I think I particularly like you too.”

He bent a little closer, the only thing keeping him from scraping his beard against my ear, the distance the table put between us.

“And how do you feel about that, little swallow?”, he whispered, his voice like a cocktail of desire and amusement.

I crossed my legs under the table and with my tiny, scared voice, squeaked, “Warm.”

His chuckle ghosted over my head but it was not a mocking one. It was genuine and light-hearted and above all, accompanied by the undeniably affectionate fisting of his fingers through my hair. His hand was so huge that he could practically cup the back of my head in one of his palms. I felt his slightly rough pads at the nape of my neck, where all my nerves were tense and alert. With a gentle swipe and rub, he had them all loose, had untied all the knots that bound me to the past.

I don't have the vocabulary to describe the denseness of my shivers.

“How... how about you?”.

He breathed in deeply and for a moment I imagined him smelling the shampoo in my hair. Was he...?

 

“I don't know, girl. You smell so fucking good, I can't think straight.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Intellectuals Flirting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I know what you're going to say. Another update? (Huffing and puffing). Why again? I know I am highly annoying but I created something I consider to be beautiful so I thought why not share it! So, there you have it, chapter 15, the continuation of the 'date-that's-not-a-date' with a little bit of social concern and consent addition that I thought interesting enough to include. It's a confusing subject but it should give you some kind of impression as to the possible things Tom has been through. Just a tiny helping clue for you would be: we always talk about the empowerment of women, how women suffer, how they struggle to prove themselves in a man dominated society but what if, what if there is one man, this man right here, who doesn't treat concepts of power and might in terms of gender? What if there are men out there, in real life, who believe in the actual meaning of equity amongst human beings (!), and not between men and women? What if there's a man who doesn't feel like he has to empower and support 21st-century feminism (careful why I use the distinction between feminism as a whole and feminism of my generation, there is meaning behind it) because he already knows!, already accepts, already establishes in his personal life, the concept of equality, treats it as something completely natural that was never questioned in the first place?
> 
> Note 1: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?, is the first line from Shakespeare's 18th Sonnet.  
> Note 2: for those of you who are not poetry junkies, iambic pentameter is a rhythmic system, a system of beat, wherein a stressed syllable is followed by an unstressed one. In a single line, there are five stressed syllables and five unstressed, ten syllables in total.  
> Note 3: a close reading analysis is an academic essay wherein someone, well, analyses a piece of literary text in terms not only of its meaning but also in terms of the links between language, writing devices and impact on the reader.  
> Note 4: "You have witchcraft in your lips, (Kate)" is a line which Henry King of England, former Prince of Wales delivers to his betrothed, Katherine of France, just after he kisses her. If you dirty little worms have seen a certain gentleman playing Henry in 'The Hollow Crown', then you know what I'm talking about, although I definitely don't doubt that some of you have read the play too. By Shakespeare. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little... intimate... tet a tet! Love you all!

**Arabella**

  
  


“God...”, I whined helplessly, burying my face in the heated cave of my arms, as far as it would go, as deep as the table surface allowed. A steamy tear or two slipped from my eye and stained my gifted sketch.

With his massaging fingers still splayed wide along the roots of my almond and rose scented hair and his incredible purr flowing without stop into my alert ear, I blushed and melted and did not seek out to change my position. My heart was trapped in the tunes falling from his sinful lips. My logic was chained down and as if a madwoman on some asylum, I rejoiced and felt safe in my bonds. I wanted to feel, in full, what he was making me experience. The smoothness of his touch, the reassuring pressure. But first and foremost, the freedom of it. The intoxicating knowledge that at the minute, the second, I chose to raise my head and find shelter in his eyes, he would _let me_. My forehead wouldn't be cracked against the wood. My lips wouldn't split from the slap of sterling silver rings. My eyes wouldn't lose their focus from the impact. My hair wouldn't be pulled out of their roots from the strain to escape the iron grip. Yes, I was chained down by his hand, but the same hand, if I wanted to, if only I asked, could be removed in a flash and a thousand apologies would fall from the tamer's lips. From the artist's soul. From Tom.

And as if on cue, as if I needed further confirmation, he whispered, “Should I stop?”.

I sighed deeply, still not in perfect terms with my own brain, “I should want you to... I know I should...”, but it was crystal clear to both of us that something else was at work here, “... I don't want to. Why-why?”.

“Are you asking me or yourself?”, he said and I felt him leaning even further forward to take another deep whiff of my scent.

“I should want... I should be scared... I should be... running away... Last time I didn't... I should have”, I reminisced, later realising that all this mumbling must sound like nonsense to him.

It didn't, for just for a brief moment his fist tightened in response before he gently breathed out my name, “I'm not the last time, girl. I hope... I hope to be a new beginning if you let me. But if you wish to run, I can't hold you down. I won't. It's your choice, only yours. But if you wish to stay, you just... you're gonna have to learn to be cool with me sniffing you all the time.”

Needless to say, I did not expect the conclusion, therefore, broke out in hysterical laughter that, as was natural, drew him in as well and had him doubled over my head.

“Yes, I know it's weird and uncomfortable, but you are gonna have to accept it. No other way.”

We both shook in mutual joy and suddenly, the distance that the table put between us was not so long.

I rubbed my happy tears on my sleeve and with glassy eyes found the oceans of his and one more time, asked, “Who are you?”.

His hand slipped from my neck and with a whimper, I said goodbye to it. His smile though, greeted me generously and warmed me, brought the spring inside me, made flowers grow from the dust of my bones.

“Thomas Adam Huddleston, commonly known as Tom from the tattoo studio, pleased to make your acquaintance. Book lover, dog owner, serial sniffer.”

There we have it, I laughed again, and like a foolish little girl, hid my face behind my sleeve covered hands, my long fingers curling to hold the fabric better as a shield against my embarrassment.

“Stop it”, I warned him, my voice a bit shaky.

“No. As long as you have laughter in you, I'll steadily continue.”

His reply took me by surprise for how could someone you met for the first time, only hours ago, commit themselves like this? How could he be so focused on making me laugh, forget my horrors, accept the beauty of small moments and yet request no information as to why my laughter was once frozen in my throat? He asked for nothing. He just gave. Would he kiss me if I asked? Would he take me into his arms if I started crying again?

As for now, he was disarming me completely with that full, white teeth smile, making it hard for me to speak normally, or even to stabilise my breathing.

“What are you thinking of?”, he asked.

 _You._ Why did I cover my face again, before replying?

“Nothing.”

“Well, if you're thinking of nothing, can I bother you with something? Just a question, for my essay? I'm a bit stuck, I'm ashamed to say.”

“Ehm, yeah, sure, if it's within my knowledge...”, I stammered, my whole body heating up like a radiator, and it was my turn to feel ashamed when I absent-mindedly, chewed on my thumb. Like a fucking fifteen-year-old.

His grin was deadly and if it hadn't made me shiver, which it did, I could definitely claim it turned me on. As turned on as I could get, considering my circumstances.

“Do you think I can come a little closer?”, he asked, picking up his notepad and his battered copy of the Sonnets.

“What?”, because obviously, I didn't hear him at first. My newly rejuvenated heart was too busy pumping harder every time he smiled.

“Can I come a little closer?”, he repeated politely, “I can't really show you across the table. Too far away.”

“Ahm, yeah, sure.”

Said the man who was practically caving his strong and lithe body over me with a needle in his hand. _No, no, Arabella. This was his job, his working space. You're not there now, for all your wishes to actually go back. Now you're in public and he's being a gentleman in a different way_ , my scattered and blurry logic reminded. _Focus, he wants professional advice._

But I didn't want to give it to him. I wanted him to touch my hair again and hum in my ear how things were just fine, how everything was simply alright and how sun and earth continued to interact friendly with one another. And then, if I was brave enough, I wanted him to tell me again that I was beautiful, beautiful and enough.

The scaping of the chair's legs upon the wooden floor interrupted my thoughts and as if in preparation for some adventurous academic endeavour, I seized my pencil with the passion of Da Vinci and pressed my lips together in expectation. I hadn't seen so much action in ages, how exciting.

I watched him sit down, freakishly long legs carefully pushed under the table in a way that they did not disturb the position or the comfortability of my own, suede shoed feet crossed at the ankles. Why did he have to sit like that? Now all I could focus on was the beautiful, sculpted expanse of his jean-clad thighs and the fact that he warmed his palms by rubbing them against the said body part, did not help my case at all.

_What case? You have no case. He is a beautiful man and you're a miserable sloth of a woman and as a matter of fact, you shouldn't be feeling like this at all._

_Infected scar, black eye, collapsed rib. Remember your place._

"So, I'm doing a close reading analysis on Sonnet 18, I bet you're familiar with close readings?”, he began.

I shook the disturbing memories off my head and nodded, “Yes, I have done a few in my time.”

“Great. So, there are all these links I have to find or essentially come up with and I was thinking, why not talk about the use of metre and stress and the impact it has on the reader? I mean, the fact that it's written in iambic, a rather rhythmical type of meter, if we look at it only in terms of the English language, signifies a lot. Am I making any sense?”, he presented, leaning a bit closer.

His eyes were so blue and intense that for a moment I forgot what an iamb was. No. I actually forgot how to breathe too.

“Erm, you definitely make sense and it's... it's actually quite a unique way... to go about it. I mean... most students don't go for the technical stuff because it's difficult in terms of expression and... well, you have to study the terms before you... actually use them.”

“Right! I know”, a glint of mischief burned yellow in his eye, “That's why I thought it would be nice to go for it. I have the knowledge so why not undertake it? When everyone else will be looking at meaning in relation to... well... nothing but the words, I'll present the poetic devices.”

My lips broke out into a little smile I had not anticipated. I nodded again, but this time with the same enthusiasm that his voice sported, “It is a brilliant idea, you know.”

At my praise, he grinned and it looked to me as if my approval made him puff his chest up a bit, made him sit a little straighter. It was a faint repositioning of limbs and I could certainly argue if I actually saw it or not but... could my... meagre, stupefied word mean something to him? He already was an expert in the field so, why did my input matter? The thought made me sit a little straighter too.

“There's... there's a lot of competition in Oxford, huh?”, I asked then.

He rolled his eyes dramatically, “It's not Oxford as in, the educational institution. Button downs and old ladies are alright. A bit stuck up and strict but you can actually talk to them. But Oxford doesn't just consist of those, a name and insane British government funding. It consists of its students too.”

“Rich kids?”

“Nah. Money obviously plays an important role but it doesn't matter to me. It doesn't alarm me”, a sigh escaped his lips and as he looked in the distance, I saw the mischief turn to brief sorrow, “I think it's safe to boast I came out of nothing and became something, on my own. I struggled to be where I am now and that... that means something. So I... I kind of pity kids who are born into the privilege of... I don't know, having everything fixed. Knowing who they are and what's their place. Whether that's in a construction site or behind an expensive walnut desk in daddy's company. It doesn't matter. Will they ever... go through a self-discovery journey? How can they be so sure that money and name promise a safe future? They are so young, why do they have to entertain ideas of social class and... It doesn't matter. It never did. What really concerns me is not how heavy their pockets are but how they treat kids who _might_ have entered Oxford on slightly fairer means. It's the interaction that's unstable. It disturbs me to see young people create divisions amongst themselves. We are all there for the knowledge...”, he paused and looked down at his Sonnets, pouting a bit.

Then his eyes were on me, smiling and making me swim in the blue tides, “Sorry, I'm mumbling.”

“I like listening to you”, my insubordinate mouth said. I don't think my brain had any part in it.

A little blush coloured his cheeks, something I had truly not expected from him. Did he even have the blushing function in his making? Was I seeing things again? He chuckled quietly and scratched his jaw, the cute, sandpapery sound making my stomach flip excitedly. I was frozen but he was melting me. I was a coarse, dense piece of wood but he was crafting me into his liking.

“So... ahm, what is... what is the problem then?”, I stammered, trying to refocus us back to the Sonnet.

“The problem?”.

I tapped my pencil on the open page in front of him and sparked him back to concentration.

“Oh, oh, yeah, the problem”, he reminded himself and we set back to work, “We say that the sonnet is written in iambic pentameter, so stressed syllable followed by unstressed. Five and five, ten in total, right?”.

“Yeah.”

“But that's the thing. With Shakespeare, it's not always strict iambic. He deviates.”

“And you're thinking, how can you talk about a poetic device that's not constant? How can you formulate an argument based on iambic that's not always there? If it's not always there, is it even a feature of the Sonnet in general?”, I suggested in my small voice.

“Precisely”, he exclaimed.

I thought for a moment. And then, before I even knew it, passion overtook me and my _small_ voice, suddenly echoed a little louder, my dry lips moistened with the sweet perspiration of encouragement.

“It is a characteristic and one of the most solid ones. The sonnet is not English though. It's Italian. Which means that the English through translations of Petrarch, Dante and all these, brought it to England. Shakespeare adapted it in the way he saw fit. He didn't copy it though, he just changed it up a bit, opposed the idealisation of the female figure, used negation, went against beauty standards and all these extend to the technique behind the writing of his sonnets. So, what I'm trying to say is... you can include this feature without any fear at all because you can highlight the general innovative approach he chose. It would make for a really good conclusion too. Like, you could pose a question to your reader, make him double think if this is really a valid feature and then you can answer your own question and say, yes it is and then explain why. And, you should definitely add examples. Here, let me show you”, I brought his book a little closer to me and pointed my pencil on the syllables I going to read, “Listen to the stress and try to tell me the difference, okay?”.

He nodded, his kind wrinkles creasing as he smiled.

“You can say, /Shall _I_ compare _thee_ to a _sum_ mer's _day_?/. But you can also say, / _Shall_ I com _pare_ thee to a _sum_ mer's day?/. What do you emphasize in its case?”.

“I would say that... in the first, emphasis is attributed to a sense of individuality? I mean... it's during the Renaissance, right? A character can think and act for himself, his thoughts are his own. In the second case, it's more like, should I do it? Should I dare compare you? It's the posing of a question. Right?”.

“Exactly. You're good at this! See, it's not so hard. You got your history background covered and everything”, I commented, my smile matching the wideness of his.

Silence and noise made love between us then.

I got lost in the blue. We got ourselves trapped without knowing how. With coffee scented breaths mingling and our uncanny connection wiring itself right, linking us to the solidness of an earthly centre, our mouths stopped moving, our eyes penetrated our fleshly shells and looked inside, inside and deeper still. Do you ever have a moment wherein you get confused as to your surroundings? A moment wherein you stop hearing the normal sounds of a pub in the noon? A moment wherein your eyes feel detached from your brain, making you dizzy and ruining your focus? A moment during which you are floating, not standing on solid ground, not sitting on a chair, during which your legs feel as if without bone and ligament? A moment wherein the flutter of an eyelash can somehow be as loud as the spinning of helicopter blades?

Silence and noise made love between us.

“ _You have witchcraft in your lips_ ”, he sang to me.

“Are you trying to recreate the last scene from Henry V?”, I whispered, as if I was telling some secret.

He shook his head and I got dizzy.

“Henry took more liberties than he should. He knew how he attracted Katherine, he was too confident. And Katherine was a tad luckier for being fearless in her innocence. You're not fearless. But if you were and if I was indeed recreating the scene, I would have already kissed you.”

My breathing faltered as his gaze briefly dropped to my lips and back up again, my heart clenching a little too violently as the realisation hit home.

“So... you're not going to?”, I asked, the sorrow and desperation in my tone so unfamiliar.

He noticed it too, “You're displeased.”

“Just... sad.”

He shook his head no and apologised, “That is unfortunate, girl. But I will do nothing unless you ask.”

I frowned in confusion. What was he implying?

“But... don't you... don't you want to?”.

“To what? Kiss you? Or kiss you without your permission?”, he pressed.

“Both? What's the difference?”.

He winced at my question. I couldn't understand why...

“I want to do both, painfully much. I've never met anyone who talks like you.”

 _Talks?_ , I questioned silently. _What does my speech have to do with it?_ Did he kiss people because they spoke nicely? I wanted to ask what he meant but other passions urged me into a different question.

“Then... then why don't you?”.

He breathed in deeply through his aristocratic nose and exhaled slowly. It was evident he was holding back.

“Because, girl, _your_ consent can presuppose, shape, dictate and bring into fruition _my_ wants.”

A small fire of indignation flared within my breast, “I don't... I don't understand. And what about... what about _my_ wants?”.

“They require _my_ consent."

With shame, I must admit, I blinked in surprise, because for some reason, in our 21st century world I had never heard of a man associating himself with consent. I almost found the idea ridiculous, but that was my sole experience of things. Now, Tom was talking about equity, about action and consequent, about an interaction between _minds_ , not sexes. Tom was presenting me with ideas I had not encountered before and this confused and drove me into even further questioning.

Olivier had never given _his_ consent to what I wanted from him, (but had I really asked for anything?), had never told me openly what _he_ wanted from _me_. He hadn't used words. I hadn't expressed myself from fear of everything he could potentially do to me. He had assumed we were on the same page and had acted on something which he called 'passion' and something else he used to call 'instinct' and I had never questioned it. Was I too young, too in love, too stupid? Blinded? If I was, then why did everything seem so clear with Tom? Words, speech, language seemed to have power for him. _No_ , and _yes_ , meant everything, despite their shortness as words, despite how easily they could be drowned.

I gathered my courage and for the first time in my life, stood up for my worries and myself not because I felt wronged, but because he encouraged me to speak, “This isn't... you're not saying all that because you know I've been... I've been abused? Are you... are you giving me power because you think I need it?”.

He chuckled, “What you really want to ask me is if I give you power because you're a woman, therefore that is _why_ you need it.”

“Well, yeah...”, I confirmed, a little ashamed of myself. Asking him something like that felt as if I was diminishing his intellect, his education, as if I was transporting us back to the Middle Ages, “I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I don't want to be rude, I just... I just-”.

“You don't understand”, he filled in for me, his warm eyes kinder than ever.

A crippling guiltiness filled my stomach.

“I feel stupid”, I confessed in defeat.

“Please, don't”, he reassured, his brows forming a sorrowful arch. I saw his hand come up and the next thing I felt was his long beautiful fingers tucking some strands of hair behind my ear. Thankfully, he lingered there, on my side, “It's new to you and, honestly, this logic of mine doesn't suit everyone. Men, women, false representation of gender and power, it's everywhere. Everyone is trying to prove they are not the weak link. But darling girl, I don't think in genders. I think in terms of being human and having boundaries that other humans just _can't_ cross. I think in terms of communication and if two people can't communicate, then there is no taking liberty with each other, there is no blurring the lines. Consent is more than yes and no. Okay? It's about trusting a person to respect the freedom of _yes_ and the restriction of _no_. Words and actions are necessary because, more often than not, physical signs can be ambiguous. I will not assume what you want. I'd like to teach you how to ask for it.”

 _Words, girl_ , I remembered him saying last night when I wanted him to touch me without the gloves. He wouldn't do it unless I asked. Unless I put my voice out there.

I took a deep breath and instinctively leaned into his hand, “How do you know all these things? How did you... how did you realise them?”.

For only a second, his gaze darkened, as if some horrible memory cruised before him and chocked out all happiness, but then he lightened again and his voice was more mischievous than ever, “It's a long story, girl. And one day I'll tell you.”

I didn't press him further, immediately trusting that he would keep true to his promise. And yet, the thought that he knew so much about the power of language, the many meanings behind an action, so much about consent and boundaries got me questioning once more, who was this man and what had he been through? Because he seemed all too pleased to accept the little pieces of information that I was feeling brave enough to share but when it came to _his_ story, to his origins he had to do something practical, something with his hands, to sketch, to draw, in order to keep his composure intact. Like a coping mechanism. I noticed. How could I not?

“Will I always have to speak? You know... when we... when we are together, if we see each other again?”, I added as an afterthought.

He nodded, “I have a feeling, call it a hunch, that you'll stick around, girl, and that... I'll want you to. So yeah, I _will_ need words, at least until I've discovered most of your beautiful layers...”.

“Okay”, I answered shyly and placed my chin on my upturned wrists, not breaking eye contact, not fearing to stare at the naked want in that man's eyes, a want that he so chivalrously tried to hide.

“It's just that... I'm not... I'm a quiet person so I don't really speak, even if something... even if I don't feel okay with something. But I guess, you'll be making me speak a lot...”.

He nodded in mock regret and closed his eyes, golden eyelashes casting their light on me, like rays, “I'm afraid, you'll be singing like a swallow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Hands of God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there. Well, it's been a while. I won't whine this time about how stressful my life is at the moment. I think that I've already established that plenty of times. People say uni is the best years of their lives. Bitch... where? I'm sweating here. 
> 
> A few notes to consider as you read:  
> 1\. "And all that's best of dark and bright/ Meet in her aspect and in her eyes". This one is from Byron's 'She walks in Beauty'. One of my favourites from Byron. And from this little addition, you can probably tell that me, the little Orchid, recently did the Romantics, ehehehe.  
> 2\. I'm mentioning Arabella's issue with food and Tom's view on it. Let me be a bit more precise for anyone who might be a bit confused. Arabella doesn't suffer from anorexia. Tom doesn't believe that Arabella suffers from anorexia either. Arabella's issue with food is tightly linked with the fact that, after her marriage and everything that it entailed, she has stopped taking care of herself or doesn't know how to get back to it. She has been through a really bad and abusive process that has damaged the way she sees routine and experiences the world. She simply forgets that she has to contribute to the sustenance of her body. I did a bit of research recently on trauma and trauma theory and it's actually quite a common symptom in 21st-century trauma victims. You simply stop understanding how your life has to fall back into a healthy routine. And besides, as she describes too, in the chapter, she had spent so much time repeating the same action, of not eating properly, that now that it's all over with her ex, she does not comprehend any other truth other than her unhealthy nutrition. It's like her mind has gone through a process of reversing what's good for her. It's typical when following repetitive patterns for a long time. Also, be warned, everything I write on my stories is thoroughly researched before it makes it into the story and if it's not, I will always tell you about it. I do not treat my content lightly, nor do I take conditions such as anorexia or mental health issues as something so common that everyone more or less knows about it. In writing these stories, I want to also raise awareness on certain subjects that I'm interested in or that terrify me, if I'm being honest. In writing these stories, I want you to gain something, I want you to experience my characters' worlds and see how you can apply this to real life events, if feasible. I'm not dictating anything, I'm simply trying to transfer the knowledge I have so that it can perhaps be used for something more. If you're not here for that, that's perfectly fine. The story is still here to be read as only a story. 
> 
> Looking forward to: In the next chapter, the date ends. Also, I am writing Loki and Andrea's chapter but I'm a bit stuck because I'm not sure how to describe some stuff. I will figure it out eventually. But, it's coming guys. It's in the works. I've not forgotten. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Tom**

  
  


So beautiful she was. So beautiful as to speak with the eloquence of philosophers when she explained meaning, method and result and whatever else caught her interest. I was not paying full attention if I'm being honest. Her eyes moved over the words restlessly. I was too busy following the trails. Beautiful. However pale her face, however wounded her lips from the cold, no matter the apparent decline of her body, she glowed and preened when asked, when probed to communicate, to break out of her shell, like a little mermaid whose freedom presupposes the use of her melodic voice. It was her gift. She should be using it more.

So timid she was. So timid as to blush upon the slightest contact, direct or indirect. It didn't matter. She would colour the same if I touched her face or if she was to hold a paper that I had previously held. I wish I could characterize her as coy, but a teasing sense is embedded in that word and she, for all her beauty and charm, was not it. However, now the case is quite different, if I may spoil you with some bits of our story, not too many though, I wouldn't want to ruin it for you. It's a story I feel is worth telling, so my timing has to be precise and you, patient.

So tormented she was. So tormented that the concepts I introduced fell into this unredeemable chasm within her mind. On one edge there was the past and on the other, the present and my ideas glided down the steep ridge in between. Bless her, she was struggling to understand. She stumbled down the dust and the cacti of that ridge and tried to retrieve the ideas but only managed to scrape her knees and bleed. I wanted to help her but I had to wait. Had to wait for her to come to me, not the other way around. And, bless her for the second time, she was, slowly and bravely making the first steps. She was inquiring into the subject. Her interest was caught. But her trust in the idea was still weak and what can you do with ideas if the belief is not concrete?

“But... don't you... don't you want to?”.

“To what? Kiss you? Or kiss you without your permission?”.

“Both? What's the difference?”.

Her reply made me wince sharply, a staccato physical reaction of the eyelids and brows that must have looked like I had touched bare wires. If I had seen this answer coming, I would have tried to soften the expression but she took me by surprise, complete surprise. What's the difference? _Everything._ I can worship you with my lips, calm you with my tongue and tease you with my teeth but I can also shut you up with those lips, rape you with my tongue and make you bleed with my teeth. What's the difference? _Is that what he did to you? Did he rape you with his tongue until you closed your mouth forever?_

“I feel stupid”, she told me, something like guilt tinting her voice.

But she was not. I suspected she never had been stupid. Having graduated from University, she could list and analyze all the poetic devices in a poem and rub it in your face, maybe make you lick her knowledge off the floor just for good measure. I respected her for that. I wanted her for that. But somewhere along the way, the terminology of life itself had fled her mind in haste. Like Trojan women fleeing the burning city with their babies, screaming and begging for mercy that wouldn't come. Maybe, she lost the terms during her marriage. Maybe each time he split her skin with the belt, a term escaped via her blood. Maybe she would find her truth again on the carpets, the twisted sheets or the hard wooden floors, where she used to lay screaming, like the Trojan women.

“Will I always have to speak? You know... when we... when we are together... if we see each other again?”.

“I have a feeling, call it a hunch, that you'll stick around, girl, and that... I'll want you to. So yeah, I _will_ need words, at least until I've discovered most of your beautiful layers...”.

“It's just that... I'm not... I'm a quiet person so I don't really speak, even if something... even if I don't feel okay with something. But I guess, you'll be making me speak a lot...”.

“I'm afraid, you'll be singing like a swallow”, I joked and twirled a messy caramel strand around my finger.

The door at the front was pushed open then and was held ajar for a bit as a large company left. The inexplicable winds London was suffering from since the beginning of winter managed to rush inside the pub, taking revenge on all the customers, making even the furniture squeak and the pans and pots in the kitchen rattle softly.

Arabella took a sharp shaky breath and looked down to her lap as she wrapped her arms around herself, the lighter cotton of her sweater doing the bare minimum to protect her from the pins and needles and chills.

Shaking my head, I chastised, “Silly girl. It's January.”

She didn't reply, only smiled in embarrassment. Meanwhile, I reached behind me and slipped my jacket off the back of the chair.

“Here, put it on.”

Her big Bambi eyes snapped up to my face, “No, it's okay, I'm fine.”

“On. _Now_ ”, I insisted firmly, holding back the urge to stand up and help her into it myself.

She opened her mouth to protest but that protest died quickly when the door opened again. She reached for it with uncertainty and slowly eased her arms into the sleeves, keeping a worried eye on me as if waiting for me to change my mind.

She thanked me in a small voice but just as I was about to reply, Cynthia came over with menus under her arm, casting her angel shadow over us.

“Sorry, guys, I don't mean to interrupt. Tom, it's 3:15 already. Are you gonna have lunch today? Should I bring over the usual?”.

I had completely forgotten about lunch. Usually, when I chose to do work or to study at the pub I had lunch at precisely 3:15, something quick but nutritious to keep me going for a few more hours. I glanced at Arabella who was respectfully looking away from me, now that I was addressing someone else. A little idea found its way into my head.

“Have you eaten, darling?”.

She acknowledged me, shook her head no and looked away again, “I'll be fine. I'll have something at home.”

“Nonsense. How about you join me?”.

“It's really okay. Doesn't matter”, she brushed off.

“Of course it matters. Come on. I would be delighted if you joined me. Don't wanna eat on my own”, I pressed, trying to determine her choice whilst not being too oppressive.

Under the table, she placed a hand over her stomach and timidly, finally, agreed with a polite shake of the head. I wondered if her stomach had gargled excitedly at the mention of food and the hand over it had been a hasty gesture to quiet it down as if the little noise could be so easily drowned out. I decided not to obsess over it too much and focused instead on my victory and the small, but meaningful, fruition of my dream.

I was going to feed her, inject her with a few more calories that I knew, sadly, would do nothing in the long run. At least my mind would be put at ease for the time being.

“Perfect. Cynthia, the usual mushroom soup for me and could you, please leave a catalogue for-”.

“No, it's alright. I'll have the same. I like mushrooms”, Arabella cut in, her eyes flicking between me and Cynthia.

At this point, it is essential to mention that I was not being too fatherly about it, nor did I see her nourishment as a cause that I should take upon myself, albeit we knew each other for less than forty-eight hours. I have my kinks, I assure you but I am not as mysterious as that. This need sprang from necessity, actual necessity. The girl was thin but not properly thin and it wasn't solely in her body that you could see it, though I had seen and counted the bones on her ribcage many times last night. It was visible in the whiteness of her face and in the hollowness of her cheeks, hollowness painted in a dusty pale colour, same as ochre, that only dispersed when I made her blush. I was certain that once upon a time, she boasted apples of healthy, plump flesh and I longed to bring that back, to see her bloom like so. Don't ask me why because my heart dares me to say I cared for her. From the moment I saw her first in the studio, I knew I would. That was my calling. To care for her and to show her that she should care for herself too.

“Two mushroom soups, coming right up”, Cynthia announced with a big, magnanimous smile, typical of her, and swirled away, the faint smell of her shampoo as her freakishly long hair bounced away distracting me from my thoughts.

I turned to my little swallow, who was blushing again as she pretended to write notes on the margins of the manuscripts.

“Wise choice. I promise it's superb.”

“Huh huh”, she mused, the soft light from the bulbs hanging above us flickering in her eyes.

_And all that's best of dark and bright_

_Meet in her aspect and in her eyes..._

Byron can probably describe her with much more precision and eloquence than I can. I'm no poet. I take text apart, for sure, and I understand it beautifully. I read the words and they make love with me and the feeling is exquisite but I am unable to birth them myself. Often, I feel that this is why I need them so much of other people, just like I do with her, my swallow. Part of me is always afraid that I'll fail my own rules. My own rules of communication... and of consent.

I refuse to hold back on my descriptions or hide them inside conceits and metaphors like the poets would probably do. A few moments ago, I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to sweep her off her feet like the strongest of Eolian winds and carry her away from the crowd, somewhere no one would hear her cry in pleasure. Or pain. I wanted to bury myself inside the tightness of her cunt and taste absolute freedom. Worst of all, or perhaps best, I wanted her to fight back, to not yield easily to me, but to scratch and burn and hurt me. I wanted to watch the struggle die in the chocolate of her eyes, getting trapped in the perfect O of her mouth as I drove the breath out of her lungs. I wanted to hike her skirt up and use her like a whore only to find myself curling in her lap and crying like a child afterwards. We are not as sophisticated and evolved as we like to think. Humans. We disguise the claiming of a body, the claiming of a mate, as a divine connection to God, our culmination is a thank you to Him, our cries are prayers. I wish I could believe in something so elegant, so delicate but it's difficult when you already know who or what you are.

Seconds later, she spoke and I was reminded of my rules, the very rules that make me slightly more evolved than an animal if you like. They're there to differentiate me from the basest of my emotions. From the drive, the urge. Words keep me at bay. My cognitive abilities keep me focused. Thus, instead of wanting to pound into her with all I got, I wanted to see to her care. Reach under the cotton and feel the delicious warmth floating underneath the skin on her back, her stomach, her belly, her breasts. I wanted her to rely on me, sigh with me, whisper to me in that sonorous voice how she liked to be touched. I wanted to coax the pleasure out of her, not take it by force, as if it belonged to me. My head was full of sounds and smells before I could stop it. I was pressing kisses to her ankles and she sang and squealed. My fingertips were dancing over her face, tapping constantly and her giggles were deafening. I was resting my head on her chest and discerned the steady thump of life, the soldier's march. She was eating chocolates, moaning. We were reading in bed and the soft hiss of the pages as we turned them, lulled us both to sleep. I wanted to cry at some point but her lovely fingers, running through my hair, were so soothing that I forgot all my troubles.

I was still possessed by these images when lovely Cynthia came back with her large tray, carrying our soup, bread and glasses of water.

Arabella's eyes widened like a night owl's when she saw the sheer size of the bowl containing the delicious creamy food. She licked her lips without realising and this time, I was certain I heard the impatient sounds of her stomach, even if the pub was getting busier.

 

**. . .**

  
**Arabella**

  
  


I didn't remember the last time I ate bread so fresh and so perfectly crunchy, or the last time I enhanced its taste by dabbing it into a mushroom soup that was not simply mushroom soup, but the most mouth-watering illusion in the desert. Needless to say, I didn't even touch my water. I just dived into the dish and quelched both thirst and hunger with the creamy texture of the soup and when I had reached the bottom and there was no more soup to scoop up with the spoon, I cleaned the plate with bits of bread and ended up slouching back in my chair, both hands caressing my stomach. I felt like purring, but I had to remind myself I was in a public place and... I was with him too.

I don't really know why I'm dedicating a whole paragraph to describe... soup. I think I'm just trying to, maybe indirectly, admit that I wasn't doing well with food, which does sound incongruous, given the fact that I enjoyed that soup as if it was ambrosia. I guess, what I'm actually trying to say is that I struggled with regulating my weight but not as in I starved myself to remain skinny. I'm not diagnosed with eating disorders but I _am_ diagnosed with trauma. And that's kind of it, actually.

Trauma invades everything, especially situations that began during the experience of the overwhelming event. My last months with Olivier had been the worst, from all perspectives, which resulted in me feeling almost mentally challenged to see the point in eating. In getting up from the bathroom floor and cooking something for myself, whatever that might be. I got used to surviving on crackers, bars and coffee, which truly shocked my doctors when I was admitted in the ER for the first time after five years. They stuck needles in my arms and fed me real good through the IV. After my hospital days, during my moving into my apartment in the city, I genuinely believed I was getting better. My appetite was back and I was able to understand once more why it was important to sustain this vessel I was born into. But when the first seasonal depressions hit me out of nowhere, when the repressed memories began to surface and I ended up, each night, back in that bathroom floor, I gave up and replaced the actual cooking process for ready meals and my beloved bars. I can't really describe the mental process of this for I don't really know it. I don't realise when I do it, therefore when it comes I perceive it as something normal. My stomach might be in sheer physical pain but I'm so used to it that it doesn't register as abnormal.

I've never told this to anyone, not even Tom. But I think, at some point, he connected the dots and found out. He's been feeding me plenty ever since without promoting that he knows about my condition, without emphasizing that he has taken my nutrition upon himself. He does it so selflessly that it has blessedly become the norm for me. You'll see what I mean as the story progresses. Now it's too soon.

“Did you enjoy that?”, he asked me, a knowing chuckle lingering in his tone.

A flush of heat ran down my spine as I realised that I had finished a lot quicker than I thought. He hadn't even reached the bottom of his own plate yet and his bread was positively untouched.

I cleared my throat, took a sip of my water and nodded nonchalantly, trying to appear more casual than I felt.

“Was... alright”, I said and dragged Brook's manuscript on my lap, balancing it upright against the table's edge.

“I bet it was”, he confirmed, grinning wolfishly. But besides that, he said nothing more, for which I was grateful.

I was feeling really uncomfortable even though I had only done such a simple thing as to devour a perfectly delicious meal. What's more human than that?

I let him eat in peace, struggling not to stare. Instead, I focused on reading the words on the pages carefully and with adept concentration. It was proving difficult. Some mild irritation was keeping a part of my brain too active, too alert, as if something was not quite right or as if something was just too _perfect_. At first, I could not detect what it was but when the door at the front opened again and the harsh wind blew in and made me turn the collar of his jacket up, I realised.

I craned my neck just a bit and discreetly inhaled the sensuous vortex of smells that I had begun associating with him. Reassuring leather, warm woolish fabric within, whiffs of alcoholic cologne that smelled like musk and wood, but above all, the personal scent of his skin, the innate combo that defined him. Hot skin, slightly sweaty from where the fabric had rubbed against it. There was shampoo in there too, but I could not discern it clearly, at least not as clearly as I could his skin. I squeezed the leather neckline between my fingers and pressed it unashamedly to my nose, suddenly bold and completely unaware that he might be watching or that he might find me inappropriate. My brain was foggy and my heart thumped heavily in my chest.

I wondered what his worn sweaters smelled like.

And then there was only sensation. It was simple and lasted seconds but it was enough to spark something in me that I hadn't felt in a while. You see, I saw me sitting somewhere, at a table or the edge of a bed perhaps, with my legs spread and my hands in between, guarding the entrance to heaven. He was between them too, but his presence was not intrusive or unwanted. I felt like this was his rightful place. I felt at peace and floating tenderly even though my mind was racing. His beard smelled of morning and his kisses burned like fire. I was wearing his leather but other than that, nothing. I was bare and beautiful again, just like I was on my wedding night. I felt like that's how he wanted me. His hands were salty and tasted like the sea as he pushed the leather aside, exposing me, like you would draw the curtains in a house to let sunlight in. I was illuminated by the shine in his eyes. He was the sun, remember? His fingers ghosted over my breasts, mapping out their beauty, counting the goosebumps on my blushing skin, reading them like Braille. I saw my collarbones tense, rise and fall with each breath I took. I was bathed in his scent and had no desire to wash it off. The hollow of my throat was dark and deep, droplets of sweat pooling at the bottom. I was a spring and he was drinking from me.

“What are you thinking about, girl?”.

My eyes popped open and I jerked in my seat, Brook's manuscript almost slipping from my lap.

I shook my head, “No... nothing. Just...”, I tucked my hair behind my ears, smiling nervously and blinking away towards the book covers in the library, “... just daydreaming.”

“Are you alright?”, he asked. He sounded concerned.

My breathing was heavy and each time my chest filled and emptied I became more and more aware of the evident strain of my otherwise flat nipples against the thin cotton. This hadn't happened in months. Well, obviously, it happened when I got out of the shower into the chill of my living room, but that was physics, not arousal. I was trying to avoid stimulation in general, lest the memories came back. But Tom... with Tom it was different. I knew him for what? Four hours yesterday and three today? Was it even possible to be thinking about him erotically? But oh... How my breasts swelled with blood, how I felt like the baggy cotton sweater was not that comfortable anymore. I yearned to get rid of my bra. God forbid, I'll never forget that moment. The moment when what I had lost started coming back to me in gentle but electrified sea waves.

“I'm fine”, I assured but the atmosphere was already charged with another type of electricity.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him, obviously having finished his meal, as he laid his hand on the table, palm up and waited. He didn't urge me to lay mine on top nor did he look at me as he pushed the two plates aside, keeping only our glasses of water close be. He didn't regard me at all, to be honest, only waited for me to... I suppose he waited for me to come to him.

My thoughts racing, my body reacting on its own, I touched him and waited too. My pulse, however, was so fast that I knew I would betray my own feelings and he would know. He would instantly see through me. I did it anyway, somehow fearless.

He raised his eyes to mine only when our fingers messily scratched here and there in search of our wrists. Finding them, we held onto each other, with our eyes too. Then, he leaned forward on the table and balanced his chin on his other hand, looking at me with blue eyes full of expectation.

“What were you daydreaming about?”.

I thought I should have felt cornered by the questions, albeit part of me wanted to be asked and experience what would happen. Experience this tantalizing notion of... and _what if_ I actually told him?

My cheeks practically itched, so much was the blood that gathered underneath the skin, as I tried to answer with a steady voice, “I just... stuff. Just... you.”

His eyes glimmered azure, the slightest cocking of his eyebrow, “Oh, dear, why would you want me in your daydreams?”.

We both giggled at his joke, before I continued, absentmindedly caressing the tiny veins on his wrist, “I told my therapist about you.”

“Did you?”, said with no guile or astonishment, just a conversational tone that spoke of... _normal_. Had he been expecting me to be visiting a therapist? Had he expected that he would be mentioned? And so soon too? Was he aware that he and his kind actions had affected me deeply? Did he know that amongst the indifferent streets I walked for the past few months he had been the most memorable landmark?

“Yes, I... I had an appointment this morning.”

“What did you say? I hope the good stuff.”

“I don't know any other... stuff. You're... I told her you were very kind and very careful and that... that you took care of me and that... somehow you knew how to do that without... without upsetting me”, I said vaguely, not wishing to get into details concerning a certain belt.

His fingers flicked over my own tiny veins, “Do you usually get upset?”.

I was getting upset at that instant. The thoughts... oh, the thoughts and the scenarios I managed to conjure within seconds. I was adept at horrifying my own self.

“Sometimes. I don't plan it, it just happens. I get too emotional, I suppose and it comes out in... in tears. Last night was... you are... I mean... behaviours, certain behaviours can... feel intrusive to me though they're not. It's just that... my, my mind works like that now, and men... I can't stand too many of them at once... I don't know why... so-”, I babbled.

I wished to explain in an intelligent collected way but all I could do was spit out a few hurried words and forget to-.

“Girl, darling, hey, hey, hey. Take your time, breathe”, he interrupted smoothly, hushing me, whispering, not shouting, “Breathe, girl, there's no rush.”

“I know, sorry”, I rushed to answer, _again_ , “I forget to do that... sometimes.”

“Well, we have all the time in the world. So breathe. Come on. Match it to mine.”

He began inhaling deeply through his nose and then exhaling through his mouth, exactly like Anna, my therapist had instructed me during our first sessions together. I didn't follow his lead instantly. I was too distracted pondering over how he knew that trick, that technique. However, soon, the rhythmic hoarseness of his breath lulled me in and shyly I drew a short one in and then let it out as he did. Before I knew it, we were just... breathing together.

Have you ever done that with someone?

I nodded and the deep breaths became deeper. His fingers began to rub my wrist tenderly as if to help my suddenly cut off circulation do its fateful journey again. I had no idea why my blood froze like that within my veins. Cold sweat was dripping from my neck down the slopes of my breasts. When I spoke again, my voice sounded small and weak and though I didn't like it I couldn't muster anything else. If it affected him at all, he would just have to bear with me.

“Last night, afternoon actually, it was... the afternoon... it was... you were the first to... to touch me after a... a very long time and... and the only one other than... other than my...”, it didn't feel right to call him husband and I was already blushing too hard to call him anything else other than, “... _him_ ”, I sighed out, at last, shaking with the effort not to let frustrated tears slide down my cheeks.

He said nothing at all and I am not even sure if he was looking at me with, perhaps pity, compassion, understanding, because I kept staring at the contents of my mug, refusing almost petulantly to grace him with a simple reassuring glance. I couldn't, or I convinced myself that I couldn't.

It seemed like he was not speaking because he expected more of me. The strangely comfortable silence suggested it. So I continued talking and in all honesty, I don't know why or how I told him what I'm about to share with everyone now. I don't know what divine force pushed me to open my mouth and just speak, in a way, mind you, that I hadn't even spoken to my therapist, not ever, despite how kind and good she was to me. No. He was... a different kind of kind with me as well as a different kind of good. I told myself it was the eyes that looked at me even when I refused to return the connection. The eyes that believed in me. That, I suppose, believed I could do more than I thought myself capable of.

“You were too kind, you know. I wasn't expecting that. It confused me. _You_... confuse me. I'm not used to this. Apathy or indifference would have been the norm. Apathy and indifference are what you usually get if... if you're me, basically. Except if you're a doctor or a therapist. In that case, you also get wise words. But all others only have a condescending smile and... apathy. It's not their fault. Till it happens to you, you don't know what it's like, you don't know how I feel. If I feel anything at all. Most days I don't, you know? It's just fear. And superstition. I'm a bit ashamed to admit that but I can't seem to get it out of my head. I keep repeating... just because a block did you wrong that doesn't mean all of them want to do the same... But _fear_... fear is stronger sometimes, you know? Don't know why I'm telling you all this. I'm just... I'm just tired of feeling like a trapped animal. Worst thing is, no one traps me. I trap myself because my head... my head is wired like that now. It works in repetition, in what is expected. And if a slap is what's to be expected, I cower in advance. It doesn't make sense. You would think I should be able to make the distinction. Hell, it's been five months, I should get a hold of my life”, I paused to sniff and rub my eye with the back of my sleeve, “I had a tattoo though! I... I got out of the house and did something for myself. So I guess that's good. It's progress.”

“Five months is not enough.”

“What?”.

“Five months is not enough. A lifetime is not enough. It's not when there's pain involved. And love”, I heard him swallow harshly. I heard the saliva get stuck in his throat like a stone.

“Yes...”, I confirmed, slightly surprised that he got it, “Yes, that's it.”

We remained silent for a bit, like theatre actors waiting for the lights to shine on their faces and let them know it's time to perform.

“What were you expecting me to do?”, he said then.

“What... what do you mean?”.

“When you started crying. What were you expecting me to do?”, his tone didn't seem impatient or irritated. In fact, I had just admitted to being afraid of his reactions but he seemed perfectly casual about it. Perhaps he was hiding being insulted.

“I'm not sure what I expected you to do. Maybe... call the hospital? I don't know. But what I was _not_ expecting was... well... what happened. Your hands were soft.”

“You repeat this quite a lot. What does it mean to you?”.

I was still keeping my eyes glued to the mug, now almost fearful of his expression. For all I knew, he could have been exercising perfect control over his voice but perhaps it was his face that said it all. I didn't answer him.

“Did you...”, he began, sceptical, “... in the time we were together, did you feel threatened at all?”.

I shook my head no and sniffed again. Such a small child I must have looked. I hated feeling like that, much more appearing like that in front of a grown man. In front of a drop-dead gorgeous, grown man, with soft palms that caressed me gently and rough finger pads that sparked me into life wherever they roamed.

“Are you sure?”.

“I mean I... I always take precautions but... I stopped minding them pretty quickly with... with you”, my voice shook. Was I giving him too much leverage? At the end of the day, I was only now getting to know him truly.

“What are your precautions?”.

I shrugged, “I... usually, I make sure there's a lot of distance between me and someone, I think. I say I think because it's not a decision I make, it's just my head. I act without knowing I do, you see. I keep checking expressions. And the hands. The hands usually say a lot. Or I... I think they do.”

“What did my hands tell you? What do they tell you right now, sweetness?”.

 _Sweetness_. My eyes searched for him without the issued command of my brain and when they found his...

His emotion was too great for me to bear so I looked away quickly, forgetting to really _see_ , to really observe and understand. Such a transparent thing to do. Not really _seeing._ All I remembered afterwards was the disturbance in the slope his think brows formed, how the edge of one was questioning the straight line and deviated upwards. That was his hurt and his compassion altogether. He was suffering with me. He was challenging me into thinking... had he suffered on his own before?

“They are gentle, your hands. So gentle that sometimes I feel like you're afraid you'll break something and that's why you're so cautious. That tells me you mind your strength. You calculate its impact. It's innate now, but was it always? I don't know. Yesterday, they were huge and I expected... never mind. I expect this of anyone. The taxi driver, the cyclist, my boss, the staff at the grocery store, out of any man in this pub...”.

“Tell me”, he insisted.

“It's not necessary.”

“It is to me, girl.”

There it was again. _Girl_. Rolled r. Bone-chilling, thrillingly sensual _girl_.

“Did you expect me to hit you?”.

The question shocked me a little but it succeeded in rediverting my attention.

“I thought about it... only for... for a second. Then the thought was gone because you... I cried and you... you did the exact opposite. And you were a stranger. I expect it from everyone cause now I know better, but you defied my standards. You... touching me like that... It was like a clear declaration that my... my way of thinking is wrong. I just don't know how to stop it.”

“And now?”.

I shook my head from side to side, “Now... I feel at peace, I think. I might be talking about something so... vulgar and... vile, human instincts are like that, you know, but your hands feel nice. And now I see that there is roughness...”, I giggled nervously, realising how intimate my words sounded, “... but it's only in your fingers. They are sensitive. It's the cold too, I think, and you're an artist. You're not just a... Well, I think I trust you. You and your hands. I did yesterday. I'm just not terribly sure.”

“Why not?”.

I shook my head no. I didn't want to tell him this. I didn't want to hear myself saying it.

But he insisted, “Arabella, please.”

And at the sound of my name, I broke. And as my emotion grew and as the hiss and snap became too loud in my ears and as the pub got busier and the crowd chattier, oh I felt like shutting everyone up, I only vaguely realised I was hissing like a snake and smiling as if _I_ was the villain of the story.

“Because _he_ used his hands like an actor. The same pause and warmth you make me feel now was once the dreadful, steely calm, the time during which he considered, the time it took him to calculate, just how... how hard I can take it.”

As quickly as I had opened my mouth, I shut it.

We both winced harshly at my reply but did not avert our eyes. Towards the end, I hadn't realised I was gritting my teeth and through them, my voice, slightly shaky but definitely a bit more high pitched, a bit desperate to convey what I felt, caused one or two sets of eyes to turn towards us, casting curious glances. Neither of us cared. Neither of us looked around nor smiled reassuringly at the alarmed guests. For all we knew, there was no one else in the pub but _us_. Or at least, that's how we felt.

I broke the shared silence first with a tiny sob and an apology, thinking them to be the best path, the balm that would restore us to how we were, chilled and casual before I'd ruined everything.

“I'm sorry Tom, I really am. I shouldn't have been so... I shouldn't have been so crass... You don't... you're not like that, you don't deserve it... You're just trying to help and I'm lashing out like some ungrateful-”.

“Don't you say that again, please”, he cut me off softly and it was because of the exact fact, because of the soft, almost whispery tone of his voice that I was surprised and ceased talking. He could have been angry. He could have been insulted. But he was choosing politeness and gentleness instead. It almost made me feel ashamed of myself, “Don't put yourself down, sweetness, not ever, you hear me?”.

 _Sweetness_ , I repeated inwardly, my voice melting and boiling like honey in a pot, all within my mind, all burning me.

“I'd rather having your lash out at me than keeping it all inside to the point of bursting”, he pointed out, his eyes brimming with something I identified as care, “It's not healthy to repress it, Arabella. All that's happened to you needs to be heard and understood. I won't offer you advice. I don't think you would want me to. I won't offer you a simple smile and a pat in the back. I'm not like that. But I need to know these things. I need you to say them out loud. I want to listen to you. I want you to know that you're not talking to a wall, that your words don't go right through. I'm... I'm here, girl. I'm solid.”

For a moment, I had no intelligent things to say, other than, “Why do you care so much? You don't... Tom, you don't even know me. I mean... what are we even doing here?”.

He smiled then. He smiled and it stopped raining and the clouds dispersed and some kind of foreign sun warmed my insides until I was filled to the brim with the feeling. That feeling you get, of complete relaxation and drowsiness, when you've just gone out of the salty water and the sun is tantalisingly slowly drying your body, droplet by droplet, thin hair by thin hair. I shivered in his jacket.

“Because... I do”, he simply answered, raising his shoulders in genuine self-question, “There is no way for me to explain it. I simply do. It's... in my nature. Right now, I'm learning a whole new person. I'm learning how to talk to you, how to exist around you. I'm learning your history. I'm learning your face, your body, your eyes. You're teaching me something, girl. The least I can do is pay attention. I _want_ to pay attention.”

My lower lip quivered with the effort to deliver my answer as smoothly as possible, “No one deserves the burden of such knowledge. No matter what words are used.”

“Maybe. But I want your burden upon my shoulders in whatever way you choose to dispose of it.”

“Why?”.

“Because you've been dragging it around for far too long. It's time to rest. It's time to begin experiencing life again, through someone else's lens.”

“Would that be... your lens? Your ways?”, I inquired, crouching in my seat, slouching further down. However, I did not let go of his hand, nor did I indicate that we were moving too fast for my comfort. For some reason, I wanted to be taken out of it, pushed around into a different world where I could gain what I could, where I could open my mouth and let him pour experiences in it. I wanted to feel how they would taste.

“If you're willing. Who knows? You might be surprised with your findings. Through my lens, we care. We don't pause to think twice about lending a hand. We don't mind how crass the things we say to each other are, as long as they are out of our chests. We do what we feel. It's not a perfect way but it has worked fine so far. You saw... You saw the world through my lens yesterday, Arabella. You did not fully realise it, but you did”, he bargained.

“Did I?”.

He nodded and next thing I knew, he was raising my hand, my frail, pale, skinny hand to his lips. My fingers scratched around his beard before the breath was sucked out of my lungs by the sanguine touch of heated, fuchsia lips, pressing the noblest, the longest and the most heartfelt of kisses on the chicken bones that were my knuckles.

His eyes were closed as he spoke, “You wouldn't have curled closer to me if you hadn't, so tightly and needily. Forgive me if I'm being forward and please know that I apologise not a bit about it, but I'd like to feel you back here again”, by here, I acknowledged instantly that he meant his chest, which, for his own reasons, was heavy with experiences too, “I told you it's always warm, whenever you need it. I wasn't lying.”

If anything, his words were equally a naughty confession and a compliment to me and for the life of me, I couldn't help but blush like a poppy, smile like a little girl and hide behind my sleeve. I don't know why it was important for me to feel like that, but it was and it seemed like he had picked up on it.

“Arabella...”, he prayed.

I turned to face him slowly, cringing a bit at the mental image of how red I was. When I caught a glimpse of his eyes, shining bluishly and sparkling under the light of the bulbs, a thousand book titles reflecting on them, I had this same feeling once more, of the breath leaving my lungs only to return shorter and not as fulfilling. I had that other feeling too. My wet skin was slowly drying under the hot sun. Euphoric.

“Can I see you again?”.

It took me less than a second to nod, hesitantly and with a heavy dose of doubt. I did it anyway.

“Words.”

“Yes”, I gasped, “Yes, you can. I want... I want to see you again too.”

I shifted in my seat and looked down to my lap.

He thanked me with another hand kiss. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Hiss And Snap Out Of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! Happy belated Easter Holidays or spring break or whatever you call it! I hope you have rested, taken a break from life and found interesting things to do and were around family and cherished friends. Sorry, the update took so long. The issue with this chapter was that I wrote the first half but then as I proceeded to end the date, I didn't really know how to go about it. I mean, how do people who are seeing each other for the second time say goodbye until they see each other again. The embarrassing fact here, I have never been on a date myself so I wouldn't know. I hope it sounds natural and as close to reality as possible when you read it. 
> 
> *As always, pictures are borrowed from the web, therefore their rights belong to their respective owners. I wanted to mention two things about pictures. Firstly, if you like, you can visit the chapter 'unleashed' in 'Rhythm of our Bodies, Movement of our Souls', because I have added two really nice gifs. Secondly, I have decided to slightly change Arabella's appearance. If you remember I presented you with the looks of my characters in the first chapter, so if you go there you will see that Arabella has been changed. It's the black and white picture underneath Tom's. I did this because I found myself describing a more dishevelled looking woman and a little bit more tired and the sketch I included in one of the previous chapters did not reflect the previous girl's characteristics. Also, I thought that a black and white picture was better because, like with Andrea, I was the one to determine the colours and the textures of the actual human being and did not have to abide with the given colours of the picture. Arabella still has caramel brownish hair and warm chocolate eyes, so when you check the new picture out keep this in mind and try to envision the colours on this new girl of mine. That's all. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking around and enjoying this story. Next up: the meeting with the famous Insta poet and a ravenous, slightly agitated Tom. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Tom**

  
  


“Well, that's brilliant, ain't it? If ye want to see the wee lass again, you should invite her Saturday night, aye?”, Cynthia's heavy brogue startled us out of our brief quiet moment.

 _Eavesdropping, you little swollen bellied minx_ , I chided her silently, squinting my eyes at her general direction.

 _Saturday night_ , I thought. The night when I would willingly embarrass myself in front of, what I, Cynthia and her husband hoped to be, a very large crowd.

“I had blissfully forgotten about that. Thank you for reminding me”, I joked bitterly.

“Oh, shut up, will you? We all know what a diva you are. Arabella, tell me. Has he sang to you yet or not?”, the girl started gathering our empty plates in her large tray while I tried not to blush too hard.

Arabella was as taken aback as I was but with her sweet trembling voice that betrayed a hint of the joy of the memory, she replied, “Actually, yeah. What... what is this all about?”.

“Oh, it's just for charity. We organise it every once in a while for various causes. Been doing it since the beginning of this pub. Tommy here and his gang of hopeless musicians, me hubby included, are more than happy to assist”, she informed jovially as she arranged the items on the tray.

She hefted the heavy thing upon her hip, twirled around and shouted over her shoulder, “It's a concert, love.”

I chuckled but it came out as a scoff. 'Concert' was much too noble, much too formal a title to describe the events that were going to take place next Saturday. This affair would be more like a friendly gathering of locals and family to support a great cause. Each time we threw these little events, we had magnificent results and the response of the people of London was truly astonishing and moving, regardless of the fact that our pub was small and quite hidden in the brick twists and turns of Fitzrovia.

I turned to Arabella, equally hopeful and a little nervous, aspiring to give her a proper invitation but without dictating what she should and shouldn't do. This was my chance to see her again, a chance that without the petite blonde's reminder I would have missed. I could not mess this up. However, when my eyes settled on her features, I noticed with a fair amount of worry that her porcelain skin was white as a sheet of paper and her eyes teary and disoriented. She was staring somewhere between the table and the papers on her lap and seemed undecided as to whether or not she should drag her gaze to either. Her hand in mine had gone too still and a little sweaty though cold. It appeared lifeless.

“Arabella?”, I called but she didn't answer me.

“Girl?”, but nothing. Same faraway look.

**. . .**

 

**Arabella**

 

****

_No one sees him shouting at me, spitting in my face. The music is too loud and the crowd too preoccupied with dancing and singing along to songs I only know the titles of. No one sees how angry he is at me and no one hears him when he hisses in my ear..._

_“Come to the bathroom with me, right now.”_

_“Baby, why are you so upset? What did I do? I'm just... It's just-”._

_“Get. Your. Fucking. Ass. In the bathroom”, he punctuates every word._

_I can tell immediately by the way he exhales, by the pungent smell of his breath and the wideness of his pupils. These devils he so much likes have been a proper extension of his hand once again._

_With a heavy sigh, I excuse myself and follow him. Just before we reach the bathroom door at the far back of the venue, he grabs me by the back of the neck, kicks the door open and shoves me in._

_I fall against a cabinet door so the loud crashing impact and my own gasp of disbelief prevent me from hearing him lock the door behind him._

_My head is spinning a little and I can't focus. All I smell is him reeking of alcohol though he is not an alcoholic. He gets like this when he needs enough courage to shout and be mad at me. However, this time is different. This time, he is furious and the worst thing, the thing that worries me the most is that I don't know why._

_“Baby, why are you behaving like this? What did I do again?”._

_“Why the fuck are you here?”, he asks, seemingly calm but I know it is a ruse to draw me in._

_“What do you mean? I- I asked you if I could go out and you said yes.”_

_“Well, you did forget to mention you were gonna be coming here.”_

_“What is the problem with 'here'?”._

_“A concert? With all these horny people around you and the band members? Do you know them? Do your girlfriends know them? Oh, no wait, I'm sure you do-”._

_“You're delirious-”, I cut him off before a hard punch on the wooden cabinet door, right next to my cheek, cuts me off._

_“Do not fucking talk to me like that, you filthy whore.”_

_Biting back all the curses I have for him, I try to reason, “Baby, you're seeing things that aren't there and you're hurting me in the process. Please don't call me that, you know I'm not-”._

_“What? A filthy whore? Oh, Arabella, always so proper and prim. Surely, you little bitch, you've already fucked most of the men in the bloody venue.”_

_“What are you-”, my blood freezes in my veins as he grasps my jaw between his harsh fingers, so hard I accidentally bite my own tongue._

_His other hand is already grabbing my nether parts in a bruising grip. I can't begin to decide how to feel about it but I know that later on, I will probably cry._

_“I wonder...”, he spits in my face, a whimper escapes my lips as he squeezes and twists my panties, “... how many were in here already?”_

_I struggle to speak so I grit out, “No... no... one.”_

_“No one?”._

_I shut my eyes, wishing he could go away. If I just prayed a little harder..._

_“No one?”, my teeth clutter as he shakes my jaw. I bite my tongue again and this time I can feel the coppery taste of my blood mixing up with saliva._

_In an instant, he lets me go and I feel a little freer. My hope is short lived as I see his face harden even more, those eyes disappearing under the veil of his unjustified wrath._

_He raises his hand but I don't see it at all. I am too focused on the black menace in his eyes, wondering why he's looking at me like that. What did I do wrong? I only know he's hit me when my vision blurs, the access to the depths of his eyes lost. All I see is the tiled wall on my left. Naturally, my head has snapped to the side and my cheek feels on fire. It doesn't hurt as much as what he says next._

_“Don't bother coming home.”_

_I bite my tongue, thrice this evening. This time, willingly._

 

**_. . ._ **

 

**Tom**

 

My heart was racing in my chest. Something didn't feel right and my body knew it before my mind could catch up. 

I drew my chair a little bit closer but not even the screech of the legs against the floor nudged her out of her daze. Was it a daze? What was this? Where was she?

“Arabella?”, I said again, as softly as I could and squeezed her hand.

 

**. . .**

 

**Arabella**

 

It was just a night out with my friends, the few girlfriends I had from university, so few I could count them on the fingers of one hand. Beautiful girls and young as we were, happy with life so far and satisfied with the careers we had chosen for ourselves, surely a privilege in the great London, we had gone out to celebrate. A little reunion if you like. A little outing to signify our independence and freedom, even if I and another girl were actually already married.

Nothing could have gone wrong. 

There was a local band playing in one of the many venues in Camden, a part of London which I hold dear to my heart but haven't been there ever since. I say to myself, 'too much to do, too little time' but in my heart, I know the real reason. Let me tell you one thing.

It is remarkably strange how our minds link things. A smell to a person. An accident to a colour. A man to the feeling of love or terror. So in Camden, inside a lush venue and under the live music, through the sweaty crowd, my husband, who smelt of rain and made my heart race with only a wink of his eye, committed the unforgivable. The unforgivable, which I forgave, over and over until months later, whilst laying on the floor of our lovely house, in Camden again, I lost consciousness and woke up only to find out I had been permanently parted from him.

 

**. . .**

 

**Tom**

 

“Yes, yes, s-sorry, I got... I got distracted”, she said while taking a deep breath. She smiled politely as if nothing had happened, but it was a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Strangely, I wanted to force myself to buy into it, maybe... I don't know. I have no clue. Maybe just to preserve some false notion of the truth. She got _distracted_. I could believe that. I wanted to believe that. However, I am a problematic creature, with my doubts and my uncertainties and my curse and blessing of empathy and no matter how much I tried to convince myself to shrug and say 'okay, yeah, what was I saying?', I could not.

I squeezed her hand a little tighter than necessary, “Are you alright?”.

She blinked and nodded yes, the polite smile on her lips growing a little bigger.

“What were you saying before? About the concert?”, she inquired, clearly in an attempt to change the subject.

And right about there, the dilemma settled in for good. Should I insist or should I follow her lead? Should I push through or should I retreat for the time being? Should I show how much I care or should I respect her choice to redirect the conversation? How does one go about these things? How does one... how does one attempt to build something beautiful out of the ruins? Perhaps... neutrality? Perhaps, by using the ruins themselves as the basic building material... Be just a tiny bit... sly.

“Nah, see what happens when I talk? People, especially women, but that's just between us, okay, don't tell anyone, they drift off. Says a lot about how interesting I am.”

Her eyes widened, “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I'm... I'm sorry. I really am. I just remembered something, nothing to do with you or...”, a traitorous colour stained her cheeks, “... how interesting you are. I mean... I mean you are... interesting...”.

“Am I?”.

She nodded sheepishly, looking down to her lap, “Yeah and...”.

“And...”.

She giggled and tried to take her hand away but I was holding it quite tightly, reluctant to break this sort of invisible link, “Well, interesting and a tiny bit elusive.”

It was my turn to widen my eyes, albeit I already knew how she meant it, “Elusive?”.

Giggles erupted from her sweet lips once more as she batted her eyelashes and averted her gaze. These two little acts, these two little playful reactions caught me by surprise, or actually, not so much the reactions themselves as their effect. Usually, I am annoyed by such things, mostly because their instigators are no more natural than concrete buildings in the middle of a jungle when they perform them. It's an act, it's a ruse, something that only easy, even slightly stupid men fall for. Yet that girl...

That girl, with her almond-shaped eyes that now brimmed with sunny joy, with her pale lips that begged to be kissed and surely tasted of coffee, with her cute red stained cheeks, like one of Michelangelo's ethereal blushing angels... She made me smile with all my heart and, since I genuinely struggle to conceal my feelings, it was evident all over my face. Even though I will stubbornly deny it, I bet I was blushing along with her.

“I can't figure you out, Tom, you...”, she said in a small voice, lightly shaking her head, still not looking at me, “... you constantly change or... my view of you constantly changes, and we've been here, I mean, sitting together for, I don't know, four hours? And it seems like...”.

“Seems like what?”, I urged her, still smiling like a fool as if entranced by the shine of some exotic jewel.

She appeared to be thinking for a moment, squinting at some random spot on the table until she finally raised her eyes for a quick glance and a little smile that softened my guts, literally made me pouty in her presence.

“I don't have a category for you.”

“Do you desperately need one?”.

She shook her head, “I'm not sure. You're full of contradictions. A category... would perhaps help.”

“Contradictions? Give me one”, I playfully challenged, balancing my chin on my non-occupied hand.

She thought for a bit again, “You seem... I think... you are kind and patient and generous but... but at the same time you know when to be stern and... give someone what they really need, at a specific moment, even if they can't see it for themselves. You are kind... but you don't hold back on what you say in fear of sounding or being impolite. I think that's... you balance the two really well. I think that's incredibly honest.”

“Really?”.

She nodded enthusiastically, “You're also... well... nevermind.”

“No, no, please, do tell. I bask in compliments, can't you see already?”, I gave her my best childish smile but she did not give in immediately.

“I don't think you do. I think you're just urging me along.”

“No, no, I would never. Come on, tell me.”

With all the hesitation in the world and a trembling hand cooling off her heated cheek and neck, she muttered, almost under her breath, “You're... you're kind of... gorgeous so...”.

 

**. . .**

 

**Arabella**

 

“I don't think you do. I think you're just urging me along”, I scolded, doing that thing again with the blushes and the eyelash battering, astonishing myself for the hundredth time that day.

I had never behaved like this with my previous husband and frankly, if I ever had without realising, he had certainly not noticed. Also, I was sure I hadn't picked it up from somebody else given the fact that for the last few months I was barely in contact with anyone apart from doctors, my psychologist and my colleagues at the publishing company, who I intentionally attempted to avoid as much as possible. In addition, I can assure you I have zero flirting skills and in all honesty, try to stay away from being in the presence of too pretty people. It unnerves me. So where were these cute girly reactions coming from? Why was I being sixteen again? Was it the effect he had on me? Had my subconscious been shaped by the knowledge that he was significantly older than me and maybe wouldn't take me seriously no matter how I behaved? Did I have any preconceived notions about him that although abstract and formless were influencing my behaviour? The answer is none of the above suggestions. The girlishness, if you want to put it like that, was simply coming from within sans filter. Looking back and examining myself, I understand that this was and will always be who I truly am. This is how my emotions externalize themselves when in his presence, despite how much I pride myself on my maturity, regardless of how quickly I took on my responsibilities as an adult, as an independent woman. Maybe this is exactly why the girl in me was shining through when with him. For these moments, I knew, even though could not put it to words, that should I fail to be responsible or meet society's expectations or lift myself up, he would step in and would not only assist in the situation but also give me the right motivation to stand up, on my feet, march again and take on the world. He was intuitive enough to see all that even before it took place. He seemed to notice before I did and he also seemed to understand that it was not a false reaction but something genuine, a behaviour that was like fresh air for him and made him happy, smiley, full. Even at this early stage, when I was not too sure if I wanted him to hug me or leave me alone when I wasn't sure if I wanted him in my life or out of it, we were, in a way, completing each other. I was shedding light and youth on his dusty and older and more tired existence and he was teaching me the control, resilience and tenacity life needs in order to be lived, truly lived, lived to its fullest.

“No, no, I would never. Come on, tell me”, damn me, that mellifluous voice was so physically _agile_ , so sly and slippery that it invaded my thoughts and flooded them with... other feelings, not really strictly related to the thoughts but rather to tingly body parts.

I groaned internally and wished that he would drop this compliment marathon but it only got worse when I admitted he was gorgeous. To my own self, I could silently admit what a bloody hot piece of an ass he was. Specimen, the perfect eye candy. But to tell him that, to say it to his face... I had never done that with a man before so, naturally, the unfamiliar results taunted and made me cower. However, once I said it, he began to glow even more and grin at me as if it meant everything to him that I appreciated both the interior and the exterior. Mind you, I had already salivated all over the floor of his studio once I had gotten a good look at that delectable derriere of his. The mere thought of it and the way these globes moved within his semi-tight jeans heated me up from head to toe, distracting me so much that I had to employ the coolness of my hand to lighten my temperature. Well, little did I know, that strange heat spreading all over my used and tired body had reached my poor hands too. Fuck.

He gave me an appreciative look, not too lecherous but also not too gentlemanly, that gave me shivers and warned me of my fate.

“No, don't-”, I managed to place a hand over my eyes before the return of the compliment was out of his mouth.

“You're even more beautiful, you know.”

“Shh.”

He chuckled, a low sound, deep, all the way down his throat, “You are.”

“Shhhh.”

“Fine. Fine, I won't say it again”, he bargained, gently running his thumb over my knuckles, “Next time, I'll make you feel it.”

Half of my brain was going, _shut up shut up shut up_ , and the other half was moaning, _oh sweet baby Jesus yes please, make me_. Torn, hot, split, confused, I don't even know what I was. All I knew was that I wasn't sure about anything at all apart from the fact I was in a friendly pub with a charming man, clever as the devil and twice as pretty whose voice made me whimper, his eyes undressed me and his promises reduced me to pouty. All else was just a vague vortex of doubts and questions and curiosity and fear into which I had no intention of diving. I knew the vortex would win in the end but just for now, just for this moment, I wouldn't let it.

I was having... fun. I was feeling... nice.

“What were you saying before? About the concert?”, I asked again, directing the discussion towards a safer path.

“Oh, yeah. I was going to invite you, darling. It's next Saturday, begins at 7 o'clock early evening, finishes not terribly late but you're free to leave anytime you wish. Drinks on the house. Donations start from 5£, all going to local communities who help homeless kids into education and settlement.”

“You... you help homeless kids?”.

He nodded, “Not all kids end up in the adoption system. Some of us-”, he paused abruptly but I heard it. _Us._ He continued in a slightly lighter tone, “Well, some of these kids just run away over and over again and end up on the street. It's not fair. It's not their fault.”

“That's admirable, Tom.”

“Thank you, darling. It's... it's kind of... it's our own initiative, no government parties involved or anything. Cynthia's husband, who owns the pub, as I told you, only consult with a legal advisor to make sure we got all the right paperwork to make the donations legal. But that's pretty much it. The rest is on us. I sing...”, he chuckled, “... as much as I can, play my little guitar with the other band members-”.

“Other band members? You have a band?”.

He scoffed, “Well, we call ourselves a band and we are not half bad, really. It's just... We're all friends and we play together, you know? Jeremy plays the drums, actually.”

“That friendly guy I met yesterday?”, I giggled and he did too.

“Yes, yes, that would be him. He _is_ friendly. You just have to find his soft spots first. Took me two years to get through to him.”

“I will keep that in mind, thank you”, I declared and we laughed again, you know, this casual laugh, a little awkward from both sides, the pure one, the genuine one, the one you don't have to question if it's sincere or not.

“So what do you say, darling? Will you be my very special guest? I promise you'll have a good time. The laughs are real when I get tired and my voice starts to break.”

I laughed, as discreetly as I could, but my jaws ached nevertheless. He wasn't even that funny which suggested that something was wrong with me, terribly wrong. Was there something in that mushroom soup anyway?

And yet... No matter how tempting his invitation was, my first instinct was not to say yes.

Unfortunately, my smile fell and unfortunately, he noticed.

“What's the matter, girl?”.

_Girl, oh stop, or I'll say yes right away and I... I can't._

“I don't know if I can come, Tom _._ I'm not good with people, especially people I don't know and... I don't know. I'm a little awkward and crowds make me anxious and I haven't been out of my flat for so long and it's winter, night falls faster-”.

“Hey, hey, hey”, he expertly soothed, closing his eyes patiently, his hand squeezing mine reassuringly. I fell quiet and let him speak instead, “Did you think I was going to leave you alone in the pub or that I would allow you to go home on your own in the middle of the night?”.

I eyed him suspiciously, “No?”.

He shook his head, the little smile on his lips betraying how childishly I was probably behaving, “I will have a seat reserved for you in the bar next to Cynthia and my other colleague, Natasha, while I'm up, pretending to be a rockstar. I will personally introduce you to the band, I swear, you'll know everyone by their first name before the night is over. And when I'm done up there, I will drive you home safely and won't leave until you text me that you got into your flat safely. You will be safe, Arabella, in a completely controlled environment. No drunks, no funny business, no strangers, you will be in the company of my people, in a place I come regularly, supporting a good cause. How does that sound?”.

He was being so reasonable that saying no wouldn't sound like doubt at that moment. It would sound plain rude. So I nodded.

“Okay then.”

His generous smile was back in an instant, his blondish hair flaming up with the last sunrays of the day. It wasn't long before we decided to leave the pub and head home. Of course, he didn't let me pay for my order, giving me a stern warning look when I attempted to reach into my small bag to get my card out. And of course, he held my hand one last time and kissed it like a gentleman before allowing me to have it back. And of course he proposed to walk me home safely, however, at this point I politely refused, saying that I didn't live too far away. I actually did but for some reason, I wasn't entirely comfortable with him knowing, so early on, exactly where I lived. I told myself I had to take this slow. Baby steps. Thankfully, he did not insist and we parted ways with the biggest, stupidest smiles on our faces.

When I got home, I dropped my bag on the floor, turned left, saw the dishes in the sink, thought that they were okay staying there for one more week, and then continued to the main room. I didn't even bother getting out of my skirt and baggy sweater, not even my shoes. I simply collapsed on the couch, one foot hanging from the side and hid my red face in the palms of my hands, giggling and thinking about stupid things, like how regal his hair looked or how warm his hands were or how smoothly he talked about his passions in that oh so, honey dripping voice.

I fell asleep with a strong twisty feeling in my stomach and a heaviness settling into my bones that was almost pleasurable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	18. A Certain Restlessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you're having a nice middle of the week! Sorry for the delay, it wasn't my intention. To anyone who might be thinking I stopped posting on the archive, that is not true, I am still writing. You shall not get rid of me that easily, I have too many perverted ideas. Unfortunately, exams and essays took up the entirety of my time this May and this is why there were no updates in either Rhythm or Inked. I didn't want to but I just had to push my personal writing aside and focus on this really important thing in my life, my University. I do apologise, however, for staying gone for that long. I know it's been over a month, at least over at Rhythm. I will amend this as soon as I can but please do not expect chapters to start going up first thing in the morning. There are still a few things to be done before I can have my summer!  
> Without further due, let me tell you a bit about this chapter. In this chapter, you do not get much in terms of Tom and Arabella's growing relationship but you do get to see how they start to feel attached to one another, a feeling which is only intensified by the fact that they have to spend a whole week apart before they meet again, Saturday, for the concert, which, is happening in the next chapter. You also get a glimpse into Tom's past, a vague idea of what might have happened to him and you also get a piece of his relationship with his closest friends, Nat and Jer. I am sorry if it's not enough to get you guys going but it is an essential chapter. I hope no one gets bored. I would hate to have that happen but then again, it would be understandable.
> 
> The quote mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, 'Listen, smile, agree and then do whatever the fuck you were gonna do anyway', has been said by RDJ originally and I thought it was a nice little addition. 
> 
> One more note and then I shall leave you. There are some Scottish Gaelic words featured in this chapter. 'Huckit' means ugly. 'Yer bum's oot the windae' means you are talking nonsense, you're making no sense. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience! Enjoy!
> 
> Next up: a rather exciting night out for our shy girl as well as new friendships. A certain gentleman with a guitar sings like an angel and, oh well, eyefucks like the devil.

**Arabella**

 

 

 _Cunt_.

I could not believe my ears but my pride and my sense of literary justice would not let me show any type of displeasure. Within my mind, however, a war was raging. 

 _Imbecile_.

 _Half-wit_.

 _You hipster poodle_.

 _Asshole_.

Exactly who did he think he was? Before the social media blast, he would have been just another suffering writer, begging publishing companies to take him in and publish him. Before this entire influencer culture and advertisement traps, he would have been working a nine to five customer service at Tesco, licking his superior's boots, cooing for a raise.

 _Ye incredulous bastard wi' that shit-eating grin_.

And to say that there was a beam of knowledge in him? Nestled somewhere that perhaps my tired mind could not reach. No. To say that he wasn't just another Instagram poet who wrote the obvious and presented it as the most impossible riddle of life? No. To say he had hidden depths that I wasn't perceptive enough to glimpse at? No. Even my two understudies, Josh and Tabitha, recently out of Goldsmith's University and on their internship program said it to my face, oh darling, good luck with that one.

 _Abuser of all that's sacred in the literary world_.

 _Dickhead_!

 _Ye huckit scoundrel_.

These were only just a few of the epithets I had in my disposal to describe Mr Brooks, oh, yes, Mr Justin Brooks whose unnatural persistence had resulted in me taking him under my editorial charge. Oh wait, I have another one for you.

 _Yer bum's oot the windae, fucker_.

Bless my daddy's soul, he would die all over again if he heard what was coming out of my mouth, albeit I was not voicing any of it. No. I am Arabella McArthur, your friendly editor. Your scared deer. The woman you think you can manipulate however you wish by batting your pretty blonde lashes at her whilst objecting to her opinions in the vilest manner. The little girl who has to sit her ass down and listen to you justify the unjustifiable while smiling politely, struggling not to interject.

_Short-sighted prick. It's not even you that's the problem. It's me._

I sighed heavily once he was finished lamenting, or rather preaching, in that way people of God in American Catholic Churches preach. Arms open wide as if calling his faithful flock into his embrace, Old Spice'd ( for real men) down to his bone and marrow, Mr Justin Brooks finally directed his speech at me instead of his imaginary fanbase.

“Can you not see my vision?”.

I fought with every atom of my body not to roll my eyes but after a while holding back my every reaction made me shake slightly, all this gathered energy inside me screaming to express itself. And what did I do? I smiled politely and pointed at the chair opposite me.

“Mr Brooks, please, sit down.”

Thankfully, he seated himself, crossed his legs in a fashionable way and threw his burgundy scarf over his shoulder, appearing every bit exasperated with my lack of understanding. He stared at me expectantly but even then I wasn't completely sure I had his full attention.

 _Listen, smile, agree and then do whatever the fuck you were gonna do anyway_ , I repeated the words of my mentor, the ultimate legend of editing politics. At least he had been to me. Mr Dark, who had so graciously offered me a position as his understudy just when I needed it the most, fresh out of uni. _Where are you now, my dear Mr Dark? You would have nailed this piece of shite to the floor with your diplomacy._

In a cautious, quiet tone, I instigated, “Mr Brooks-.”

“Justin, please.”

I bit my tongue. I hated being interrupted, “Justin then. If this publishing agency is known for one thing is for pushing young talent out into the market. I can assure you, no one here, especially me, undermines your work in any way. It is poetry after all. No one can shift it, no one can extract anything from it. If so, the entire work falls apart. The suggestions I have made do not target your form or your content. These are yours and yours alone. You are free to phrase your ideas as you like but please do take into consideration that the success of your poetry book also lies on how well you can receive and work with feedback. This is all I am giving you. Some feedback. You do not have to accept it completely. Just take a look at it and keep it in mind.”

He snorted rudely, “Yes, but your so-called feedback suggests that I do not write as a Romantic but as an Innovative poet. Absurd.”

“Justin, Romanticism was a movement developed at the end of the 18th century. Whatever we write, as 21st-century artists cannot be perceived as exactly Romantic. Not exactly. If a poem does not boast the precise features of a Romantic poem, without any alterations whatsoever, then the poem is simply not Romantic but _inspired_ by Romanticism. I am not saying anything bad here. Yes, you do write in that feeling. Your poems have all the Romantic themes, indeed. But a poem, much less a whole movement is not just its themes. It is its techniques too. Its stylistic devices. Its mere shape on the paper. You are using none of these. There is nothing imitable of Romanticism in your poetry-”, he interrupted me yet again only to scoff and look away in sheer indignation, “- I can definitely accept it if you're saying that the poetry is Modern or Innovative with influences from Romanticism but I cannot accept labelling your entire poetry book as Romantic. It's not natural.”

“But I studied the Romantics. I know how they write. How can you tell me that my poetry is not the same?”, in a flurry of movement, he leaned forward, invading my personal space. His tone of voice was strained, reminiscent of a barely held back snarl. I couldn't help but jolt back a little, my palms sweaty, the blood on my temples pumping louder.

His eyes were fixed on mine, his nose, sharp and pointy like a hawk's, too close for comfort. He could probably pluck my eyes out with that thing if I pissed him off just a tiny bit more.

I took a deep breath and reclined, burying myself in the cushiony back of the chair. His request to describe his work as strictly Romantic was not right in both academic and moral terms. It would only damage his newly made career to publish a wrongly labelled book but his vanity was so great that he would not take no for an answer. Yes, he had studied the Romantics but they were what they were and he could not, for the life of him, be the same no matter how much he had convinced himself. However, I lacked the arguments that could persuade him to reconsider, if there were any, so I used the last weapon in my arsenal.

“Alright, here's what we're going to do. How about we both give it some time? How about we meet here next Monday to discuss this again, perhaps in a lighter mood? I have no wish to insult you”, _no matter how much I want to_ , “ I believe you know that. I am only trying to do my job as effectively as I can. Just... just go through the feedback in your own time, see if there's anything you would like to alter and we'll see each other next week. Besides, consultations with an editor take longer than just one meeting.”

What Gods blessed me, I do not know, but he accepted my suggestion and off he went, storming out of the tiny meeting room like he owned the place.

What had I tried to convince him of anyway? Of what improbable thing? Oh, that's right. That he cannot claim to be a Romantic poet unless he follows the technique and structure to the letter. How utterly bonkers am I?

 

**. . .**

  


Having finished up with some forms and general paperwork for the office, - many many many hours later-, I cleared my desk, grabbed my large messenger bag and the little extra tote I always carried and headed towards my understudies, whose desks, Dick the dick had decided were best suited huddled together at the far back of the floor we were currently on and mind you, in the coldest, darkest area. He loved doing that to newbies, isolating them to supposedly toughen them up. How honourable of him.

“Tabi, Josh, I'm done for the day. How are you doing?”, I usually never initiated anything, not even a polite conversation with people from the office but Tabitha and Josh were actually very easy to approach.

They were both masters of the nerdy look, complete with huge lenses and button-down shirts topped by nice wool sweaters from expensive brands. They were both beautiful in a terribly stereotypical British way. Blond hair, slightly darker brows, high bone structures that came into a despicable contrast with how plump and rosy and full their cheeks looked. Matching blue eyes with short yet fluffy lashes were their visual signature. To each other, they spoke in slang terms, to the rest of us with the poshness and stuck up manner that suited London publishing agencies. They were quick studies and I admired them for it. Adaptable like chameleons. Born for the suit and tie of the company life. Not like me.

“Not too bad, boss. We're almost done too”, oh yes. Another thing I so liked about them. They called me _boss_ , completely disregarding the fact that the actual boss was Dick the dick. How it infuriated him when they called me that in front of him... precious.

“Great. Don't get used to burning the midnight oil just yet. You're too young for that. Any plans for the upcoming weekend?”.

We talked a bit, not really caring about how loud we got. Besides, the editor's floor was almost empty. Tabitha told us she would go skiing with her parents and little brother at a resort up North and Josh had plans for dinner with a girl he'd met at uni. I told them I was going to go to a charity concert. A friend of mine was going to sing.

And with that thought still whirling in my mind, I left them to do the rest of their work and went to the bathroom to change into my sneakers. As I pulled them out of my tote bag simultaneously pushing off my pumps with hate, I raised my eyes to the mirror opposite me and repeated the words with some determination.

“I'm going to a charity concert. A friend of mine is going to sing.”

There was no one in the bathroom so I shoved my pumps into the tote and repeated the words. By the third time, I began to believe it. My lips trembled into a tiny smile and I sighed shakily, sweetly reminiscing-.

A woman burst into the ladies room and headed for one of the cabinets. I looked over my shoulder to the wooden cabinet door as it fell shut with a light thud and just then... I didn't even have to squint for it was so clear... no fogginess... no mist surrounding the events... no... no... not my man anymore.

It was as if it was happening all over again, a scene from a movie replaying itself in front of me, affecting me the same as it had affected me the first time. That first time, I was the main actress of the whole thing but now, I only got an aftertaste of the incident. I was there and then I wasn't, much like an extra in the story of my own life. My mind felt not my own. It must have been manipulated by some mischievous God, I bet, who thought it funny to cast illusions of me and the one that I used to love, forcing them to act out in a way that... just didn't suit them at all. This was not who they were but the resounding slap proved otherwise. I took a step back, my eyes stuck on the wooden cabinet door. The woman's cheek was starting to smart already. I touched my own without thinking.

_“Don't bother coming home.”_

_So mean, so angry. Why always so mean, so angry?_

I shook my head in refusal and gathered my stuff from the cold tiled floor.

“I'm going to a charity concert. A friend of mine is going to sing. I'm going to a charity concert. A friend of mine is going to... to sing. I'm... I'm going...”.

 

 

**Tom**

 

 

“Jer, I'm fucking serious. I know Nat will be on her best behaviour cause unlike you she does understand the delicacy of the situation without too many explanations. I'm saying this, no, _begging_ you one more time, as your friend, please, do not bring her into an uncomfortable position. It is really important to me!”, I said through gritted teeth.

I had this conversation already three times in the same day and it had started to get on my nerves. Jeremy absolutely understood my point but he pretended not to just to spite me. However, I couldn't be sure for he had this incredible ability to not make it clear when he was being silly and when he was serious. Tempering with these already blurred lines, like the little actor he was, I was having a hard time putting my trust in him that he would keep himself on a leash. And it was damn vital that he do so on Saturday evening.

“You gonna...”, he started mumbling, pointing at my extended arm, “... gonna let them needles down first, huh?”.

Ι sighed and rubbed in on my eyelids, dropping the tattoo gun back on the portable table with the rest of my tools. Had I squeezed the gun a little bit more the ink would have spewed out and all over Jer's smirking face, much like whales spit water out of that hole in their heads. The thought was actually quite amusing but not nearly enough.

“Tommy, what's up with you?”, I heard him mutter as I flopped down on my squeaky couch, draping a leg over the armrest.

“I just want you to be less sarcastic around her, especially on Saturday when she'll spend so much time with us. Nothing's... up.”

“You like her”, he declared, not an ounce of doubt in his gruff tone.

I shook my head negatively but he was having none of it.

“Yeah, yeah, sure”, he waved his hand about, demanding that I scoot over so that he could sit beside me, “You're only this irritable if you like a bitch.”

My mouth hardened a bit at the sound of that word and I am sure my eyes were a little unforgiving when I looked at him. I didn't mean to but I sounded unkind and tense, “Do not call her that.”

“Fine. Whatever”, Jer replied and rolled his eyes, as usual taking no offence.

He sat beside me, popping a few vertebrae as he settled.

“You like her”, he tried again and this time I did not try to deny it. I hadn't wished to deny it the first time either but I am stubborn like that. I wasn't going to surrender information to him that easily.

“You're hiding something.”

“I'm not hiding anything.”

“Yes, you are”, he chuckled, “I know ya, Tommy boy. And if I'm gonna behave like the gentleman that I'm not, you're gonna have to give me juicy details.”

The man was impossible, to be sure, but he had a point. My only concern was that Arabella's past was not my own to share, therefore, I had to be really selective with my words.

“Fucked her yet?”.

I expected to feel a tiny bit disgusted by the direct question or by the fact that his mind had gone straight there, but in all honesty, I was not. I wished I could feign looking aghast, a little shy maybe. I couldn't do it. I should have felt ashamed of myself, picturing sweet, softly spoken Arabella, the little swallow with the trembling shoulders and bony hands and that delectable lithe body, that scarred body, bound and helpless in my bed. I should have banished the thoughts immediately. But a twisted brain is a twisted brain and a stubborn cock is a stubborn cock.

“No.”

“But... you want to.”

I bit my lip as hard as I could but the reply came out anyway, “Like a starving man...”.

Jeremy wasn't amused. I glanced over at him and for the first time in a while, he looked pensive. He motioned for me to go on.

“I'm sensing there's another 'but'...”.

I leaned forward on my elbows with a heavy breath. Saying this without giving too much away was a far more difficult trial than I had thought but I would try my best if that meant he'd be good around her.

“She keeps a respectful distance from me. Not physically. You know how I mean. In her mind, there's a barrier.”

“So you won't fuck her cause she refuses your charms?”.

I had to give a laugh at that.

“No. No, my dearest friend. It's more like a game of politics. She has to get into my brain before I get into hers. Before she _allows_ me to even get close enough...”.

“She sounds a lot like you”, he commented, the tiniest hint of disapproval coating his voice.

“Well...”, I reached back, caught his wrist and guided his hand to rest between my shoulder blades.

I wish I could look at him at that moment. I wish I had the guts to turn around and let him know of my meaning more clearly but I didn't have the strength. The vulnerability of having someone touch me there, _there_ , at the sensitive area that had started it all, was too great to allow anything beyond that. I kept staring at a random spot in front of me, struggling not to naturally draw into myself.

“She is very much like me.”

I pinpointed the exact second his big hand stilled, tensed, recognised. He snatched it away from me as if I was on fire because he knew. Jeremy knew about it all. I had told him when we were still in Arts School. I had shown him too and in return, he had plenty of stories to tell about himself as well, stories that might not have been imprinted on his body but were definitely branded on the walls of his brain. Like tribal tattoos, geometry spiralling into itself. He was burdened with the knowledge of it all. Natasha knew too, however, her approach had always been more motherly, cautious and tender.

He was silent for a long time, giving me the chance to shoe the memories away and lighten. I smiled at him reassuringly over my shoulder but to my dismay, he looked even more pensive. His messy brows seemed too heavy for his small eye shape, which instantly made the shadows around his eyes denser. Whatever amusement he harboured today, I had managed to kill it completely.

“Tommy...”, he called after a bit, before the silence had achieved in making the entire confession too awkward, “For real?”.

I nodded, “I'm afraid so.”

“Is she... is she okay now?”.

“As much as she can be. It's too soon.”

He fell silent again.

“Her father?”.

I shook my head no, “Ex-husband.”

“Jesus fuck...”, he muttered, rubbing the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. His palms were coated with a little bit of ink so, naturally, some got smudged over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

“He gone now, right?”.

“Yes. That's what she told me.”

He stood up and paced around the studio, scratching his neck and consequently, getting more ink on himself.

“How long? Do you know?”.

I got up myself, “Doesn't matter, Jer. All that matters is that it happened. It's a burden she'll carry for the rest of her life because, let's not fool ourselves here, that kind of treatment is not something easily forgotten. She's... it's fresh. She's sensitive. Little things trigger her, you know how it goes. You know too well. She's far too cautious and it is completely understandable. It has crossed my mind that I might...”.

He stopped pacing then, “You think she's scared of you?”

I tilted my head to the side, pretending to be thinking, “She is.”

He almost snorted, “No, she isn't, idiot. She tries to convince herself that she is. That's it. That's her barrier. That's how she protects herself. Go to any shrink you want, they'll tell ya the same thing.”

“Maybe... I don't know. But that's the thing. I want to know. I want... This isn't just about sex. I want to help her. As a friend.”

“Of course you do. You can't help yourself.”

“I really can't. I care. I choose to care.”

He turned the situation over in his head for a few more minutes before nodding with a kind of determination I hadn't seen in him for a while.

“Your little swallow...”, he pinched his nose and paced towards the door, “... you don't need to worry. I got her back from now on.”

Just before he turned the knob to head down, I shouted after him.

“Jer?”.

“Say it.”

“Don't let her know that you know, alright?”.

“Of course.”

With a hand over my chest, I thanked him.

  


**. . .**

  


Pushing the little swallow out of my mind for the rest of the day hadn't been exactly easy but I had managed. I took considerable pride in the fact that I'd been able to obsess over my work so much that eventually, all other thoughts had been automatically pushed out of my head as if work and anything work related took up 90% of my brain capacity. But then again, that 10%. Fuck me where I stand, it was impossible to stop thinking, even indirectly, about all the things I wanted to do to her, of natures both pure and filthy.

Sporting a rather large erection that pulsed and nudged at me accompanied by the bitter aftertaste of the conversation I had with Jeremy made me more abrupt with my movements, less gentle with my hands.

During my last appointment of the day, Peter, a former commander in the Royal Navy, had the nerve to tease me about my agitation.

“Tom, you alright, mate? You seem,- agh-, a little tense today”, he started but his words were interrupted by a sharp, agonising gasp as I removed the needles from his skin.

I turned around to refill the ink cups with some pearly pink mixed with yellow tones in an attempt to perfectly recreate the colour of flesh. However, Peter wanted his mermaid extra flushed in certain areas, so I took a note to add a little bit of bright red later. These mariners, so eager.

“Why do you say that, my friend?”, I flipped the switch and the gun started buzzing in my hand once more. It took me a bit to realise I was holding it like a butcher's knife.

I jabbed the needles into his thigh and delighted in the way he jerked his entire leg.

“No reason. You just... you're usually more gentle”, he gulped.

“Oh, are you in pain, Pete?”, I cooed, luring him into a false sense of security before I dragged the needles across the mermaid's torso, to create shadows under her naked breasts.

“Just a little”, Peter confessed apologetically.

I tilted my head in mock understanding, “Oh, well, Pete, shut up and take it then.”

Just then another series of ow's and agh's escaped his lips. I only dragged the needles harder across his skin as if practising on a piece of meat.

“I said be quiet, Pete, or else I'll make that mermaid's tits so big your wife's gonna start wondering!”.

When he nodded enthusiastically and kept his mouth shut, letting me return to my work, I was able to relax once again and continue uninterrupted.

When all of us finished for the day, Nat offered to drive me home but I kindly refused and told her to only take Jeremy with her.

“You okay, big guy?”, she asked me, laying a soft hand filled with splendid inky sunflowers on my shoulder.

“I'm fine. Just a little distracted. Didn't sleep well last night, is all”, I lied.

Unfortunately, my over ten-years friend was too intuitive to buy into it.

“Does this maybe have to do with a certain sad flower with pale, wet petals?”, she phrased eloquently. Her huge green eyes and the innocent way in which she blinked broke me.

I ran a hand through my hair, pulling them sharply at the edges and admitted that maybe, just maybe, that was indeed the reason, “How did you guess?”.

I wasn't expecting her to burst into laughter or to slap at my shoulder as if she hated my guts but she was Nat, so she did.

“Didn't have to gue-e-e-ess”, she chuckled harshly, “Your dick is so hard I can see it poking through the zipper”, and made a run for her car door.

But not before I reached out and slapped that jiggling ass. She howled in the middle of the sidewalk but laughed it off still.

“You need a man to spank your smart ass into some sense and quick”, I taunted.

“Misogynist!”, she bellowed, cackling like the most adorable hen and slammed the car door, driving off into the night.

Jeremy was surely laughing his ass off beside her.

  


**. . .**

  


Once I made it home, I quickly stripped off and ran into the bathroom to take the coldest shower of my life. I screamed bloody murder when the first drops attacked my apparently flaming skin. I hadn't realised how heated I had been all day. I stood under the assaulting water, shivering a little until my body got used to the low temperature and began to draw pleasure from it.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of a list of things that might help me calm down that monster between my legs. I blinked, looked down at it derisively and focused really hard.

_Chopping onions._

_Garbage sacks._

_Dotty is on the other side of that door._

_You're an old pervert._

_You had cystic acne when you were fifteen._

_Cough medicine tastes like chemicals mixed with piss._

_That mermaid's breasts were really full. Maybe I should have advised Pete against it. Smaller and firmer are better. Except if the woman is a mom. Then, big ones are just the treat. What am I saying? Breasts are beautiful anyway, any size, any shape. But the little swallow's... I wonder, are they small? Are they full? Do they flash pink when she orgasms? Do her nipples point to the sides or look straight ahead?_

“Stop”, I commanded, “We are supposed to be in this together, you prick. You're not supposed to be working against me, you utter cock.”

I buried my hands in my palms, pushing the cold water into my pores lest I woke up, away from this purgatory, and growled like an animal. I was talking to my cock. I was thinking with it, not with the rational part of my brain. Suddenly, I straightened.

_Yes, but what if she's thinking with her cunt right now? What if she has both hands down her panties, rubbing away with your my cock in her head, hm?_

“Oh, stop it, don't go there”, I put a hand over my eyes, trying not to picture her. I obviously failed.

_Women have needs as much as men, you know this. It is natural for her to think with her cunt. It's natural for you to think with your cock. No shame in the game, big guy._

I shook my head in painful denial, yet I was a total hypocrite for I also, very sneakily, maintained the picture in the front of my mind: sweet Arabella, comfy and snug as a bug, sprawled across my bed like a queen with her legs so wide apart and her tiny, delicate fingers so deep in that pink opening, spreading her juices everywhere with zero shame. I wanted them wherever I could get them. Staining my sheets, dripping off my tongue, smeared all over my face, coating my balls. I wanted to bathe her in them, dip my fingers in that honey pot of hers and take as much as I could to spread down her stomach, circling her nipples, shove them into her mouth so that she could taste her own sweetness.

“Fuck”, I hissed, grabbing my wet hair by the roots, “Cold showers and self-restraint only exist in erotic literature, I wager.”

_She is so beautiful... so weak... so innocent... so whorish... her smile... that little laughter... I made her laugh..._

“Fine, you win”, I acknowledged begrudgingly and grabbed my cock, pumping it raw until I saw stars.

And probably screamed like a sex-crazed chihuahua because Dotty started barking his rather strong lungs out, yapping that fluffy tail of his against the bathroom door. 

 

 


	19. Haunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! I hope you're having a good one wherever in the world you are. As for me here in Greece, it's sunny, boiling hot, occasionally rainy, noisy and stuffy but am I complaining? No. It's better than the bone stiffening climate in Manchester, haha. Let me present chapter 19. It is a big one and to be honest, it was really overwhelming writing it. Its size is not ideal and on a personal level, I don't think I can do it again. This time was an exception because I didn't think it would be appropriate to separate it into two. But, yeah, from now on I shall continue with the small chapters. See, it is really weird, because I can definitely go for big chapters over at Rhythm, but I just can't with Inked. Maybe it's the perfectionist in me, I don't know. Maybe because Inked is written in simpler language with the occasional poetic twist, I feel more responsible to make everything perfect. Forgive me if you find any typos or awkward phrasing. Big texts confuse me so much and sometimes I get overwhelmed. It's possible that something has slipped my attention. 
> 
> The songs I included are:  
> Lovesick Blues by Hank Williams  
> These Foolish Things by Ella Fitzgerald  
> Haunt by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (this one, you guys, damn, I get really emotional every time I listen. If you're okay with garage rock I would suggest giving it a chance. Maybe it will help open your perception of the chapter and the characters, who knows?)
> 
> All comments are greatly appreciated. Don't hold back. Let me hear your thoughts. Next up: I'm not gonna tell you because it's stated at the end of the chapter. HAHA. Wouldn't want to ruin it for you.
> 
> Thank you so very much for your patience. Please, enjoy!

**Tom**

  


I was nose deep into that windswept bob of hair, shivering from its softness. Her caramel strands smelled of vanilla; rich, luscious and ticklish. Some stuck to the spikey hairs around my mouth, magnetized. My eyes were closed, my mind in tune with my body, feeling her, holding her, enjoying her.

All the calmness, all the serendipity I found in this embrace could not compare to any other I had instigated in the past. Friends, lovers, family. No one had fitted as perfectly as this lithe, tired, painfully abused body.

“Might I be so bold as to make a further request?”.

  


  


**Arabella**

  


Had I used shampoo on my body and body lotion on my hair whilst in the shower this morning? I cocked my head to the side. Yes, I had. Had I spent most of my afternoon trying to recall how to apply even the tiniest amount of makeup? Yes, I had. Had I poked my eye with that stupid eyeliner before I had managed to make a nice and natural wing? Yes, I had. Had I eaten frozen pizza for breakfast and cereal for lunch? I placed my hands on my irritated and slightly bloated stomach. Well, there's no point lying about that. Had I spent at least two hours emptying the contents of my wardrobe and dress drawers just to find an outfit that was even remotely appropriate for the occasion? My chin doubled as I looked down my body, eyeing my final outfit with a smidgen of regret. I sighed. Yes, I had.

What I had come up with was not exactly formal but not terribly casual as well. Comfy jeans were obviously the ideal option, especially on a night like this. The bitter wind would have pierced through any other kind of fabric so I'd thought I could save myself the chills. All else was simply a practical layering of black pieces. The turtle neck that hugged my upper section fitted me nicely and was thankfully not too clingy as I wasn't exactly comfortable attracting attention to my silhouette. The fabric was nice and thick preventing any harsh lines from my posture corrector to show through. In the way of protection from the cold, I had gone with a standard long coat that fastened at the waist with a loose belt. It actually looked more like an expensive cardigan. A horrible decision really. I had clearly misjudged the London weather once again. Thankfully, I had stayed away from anything even resembling a heel and had instead slipped into my biker boots. Overall, I was okay.

However, I had woken up this morning with an entirely different picture of how I was going to look. I wanted to put on more makeup. Sultry, earthy and warm colours on my eyes perhaps, not just a small wing. The chapstick I had decided on was surely glossy but was colourless and basic. I knew I would have looked better with a beautiful pink shade on. _I knew it_. As for my clothes, I wanted to look fabulous in high heeled booties and maybe a more revealing top, something that could seriously prove I was a woman. That was a wrong thought to have but that didn't mean I wasn't going to think about it. With my turtle neck and secure jeans, I was completely covered up and even my coat, oh... I knew that the minute I'd step into the pub it would take me ages to take it off. I was really insecure about how my shoulders slouched and how thin my arms looked, especially in black. Black makes a girl look slimmer, that's what my mum always told me. And I had lost so many pounds since... since him.

I worried my lip and tried to avoid looking through the windows, at the people who were already lounging around the place. There was laughter and everyone had a drink in hand. They seemed so content as if nothing happening outside the pub really mattered.

Someone was punching my stomach from the inside. I could just leave. Yes, it wasn't too late. I could just turn around and walk the other way. I could go seek my usual shelter; locked inside my flat, under my soft blanket where nothing and no one, absolutely no one could hurt me or take something from me. I could simply forget about this attempt at normalcy, forget about this charity, forget about this guy, this stranger that had entered my life so abruptly and, well, frankly, without any invitation at all. I could command myself to let him go, him and his circle, whoever they were. I would erase it all from my memory. His hands, his smell, his words, his... his voice... his skin... against mine.

I wrapped my arms around my waist and gasped loudly. I hadn't realised I was holding my breath. How miserable I must have looked, standing there on the pavement, fighting my own self. With persistence and a little bit more self-loathing I could evoke my own tears.

_Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking._

I shut my eyes tightly and kept my ground. The bitter cold kept bitting at my cheeks, making them numb and red. I wouldn't move.

_Stop thinking and go inside. Stop thinking and go find him._

 

 

**Tom**

  


“How long has she been standing there for?”.

Jeremy shifted his weight from one foot to another. He cocked his head to the side and squinted at the window, thinking.

“Fifteen minutes maybe. Or twenty. Would have called for you sooner but I just wanted to see if she would... you know, move.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. People passed her by, walking in a fast pace, eager to take shelter from the weather's brutality. But she remained still as a statue as if she had accidentally stared into the evil eyes of a Medussa. Petrified. Only her beautiful curls moved, swaying wherever the wind dragged them.

“It's not her fault.”

Jeremy patted my shoulder, “I know, old man. I know. It's the noise. You know, in her head. No off switch.”

I glanced at him briefly. Sometimes I was genuinely surprised by how much he understood, how much he picked up from people and yet how little he acknowledged out loud.

“Thanks, Jer. I'll go get her.”

  


**Arabella**

  


The annoying string of thoughts and doubts had lost articulation and coherence and was now just a constant buzzing that gave me a solid headache. I had to open my eyes and start breathing again. After all, I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk of one of Fitzrovia's quaintest but also busiest streets. I was either going to have to cross it or leave for good.

I shook my head again as if to wave the insistent buzz away. It felt like I had swallowed bees. I looked up and...

There he was, leaning on the stone wall next to the entrance, looking at me from across the street. Businessmen in sharp suits and expensive ties talked loudly on their phones as if work was far from over yet. They walked fast, begrudgingly putting one foot in front of the other, getting themselves where they needed to go. Young couples on dates waltzed around, giggling and kissing each other. Teenage boys and girls on skateboards were falling in line, eager to reach the dangerous traffic ahead. Women, exceptionally beautiful ones who were not afraid to wear lipstick, strolled on both sides of the street, trying to decide where the evening's entertainment was to be held. Their heels clicked on the stone enticingly, their long curtains of luscious hair swaying seductively in the wind. Everyone had somewhere to go. Everyone had somewhere to be. Except him. At this moment during which our staring match was evolving into something taken out of a movie scene, he was still and quiet with his back against the wall as if nothing could deter him, neither noise nor other people, from doing just that one thing. Staring at me. Waiting for me to come to him.

He was casually dressed in blue jeans and a crimson sweater that left his long, milky neck exposed to the cold. The slightly fitted sleeves were rolled up his forearms which strangely made his whole arm look lengthier. Since he had no coat on and because he already seemed relaxed and cosy, I assumed with a bit of sadness that he had arrived much earlier. I could only hope that he hadn't been waiting for me against the wall all the while. I was already feeling terrible about it without even knowing if it was true or not.

We weren't that far away in terms of actual distance, so when a sly half-smile surfaced on his lips, I saw it all too clearly. Never taking his eyes off me, he tilted his head towards the entrance and winked. Needless to say, I blinked, finally looking away from his spellbinding gaze. Blood began to flow through my body again. A warm sensation tickled my belly and finally, the first shy butterflies of sweet anticipation spread their wings. Their leaping and flying about my stomach was so loud and wild that it seemed to outdo the buzzing taking place higher up, in my head.

I glanced left, then right and crossed the street. I kid you not, when I reached him, when I stood in front of him with my shivering shoulders and my frail courage when I entered his private space, the grin on his lips exploded into a childlike smile. Elusive he was, but then not exactly. His expressions were endless and switched swiftly. What I was still confused about were the intentions behind them.

“Little swallow...”, he greeted in that vibrating voice that made me clench my thighs.

I couldn't deny him a smile, “Hi. Am I... am I late?”.

“Not at all. I'm up in thirty minutes. Plenty of time to get warm and settle.”

 _Settle me on your lap and we're good to go._ I tried to swallow and choked on my own saliva at the unexpected thought. I shook my head and coughed, pretending I was clearing my throat.

“Everything okay?”, he asked quietly, tapping my elbow to get my attention. “Ye... yeah. I'm fine”, I nodded frantically, “Just fine.”

His eyes caught mine and I swear I felt my knees tremble and my blood flow down... under... out of control, straight where I did not want it to go. What was it about his penetrating aquamarinish gaze that riled me up, heated me like a leftover burrito and devoured me whole in shameful crunchy bites?

He hummed approvingly at my frustrated state and offered me his hand.

“Come with me then.”

I only hesitated for a few seconds, eyeing his hand with deep longing, before I placed mine on top. As soon as I did though, all my worries vanished. Yes, come on you – damn, with you. Guide me into the unknown. Introduce me to the dark. Tear down my comfort zone.

I hadn't made one step into the pub when the cheers, laughter and jovial noise assaulted my already weary head. People were engaged in animated conversations, moving their hands about in gestures or clinking pints. Old, young, everyone had gathered tonight for the chilled evening I had been promised. Tom was the braver, the one to tap people's shoulders and ask if we could pass through while I, like a little toddler, trotted behind him subserviently. A few lads glanced at me as we made our way through but thankfully no one seemed to sneer, leer or even linger a little too long on my passing form. Everyone was too caught up in discussions, playful banter or joke exchanges to bother with me. Nevertheless, I gripped Tom's hand a little tighter, overwhelmed by the presence of so many people.

I think he sensed my discomfort because he looked at me over his shoulder, winked and reassured, “Almost there, beautiful.”

We made it to a table closer to the bar, withdrawing from the hustle and the laughter. Three tall stools surrounded it, I suspected one intended for me, and the other two for Natasha, Tom's colleague, and Cynthia, who was currently behind the bar, filling tall glasses from small barrel taps. Beer for the folks, I assumed.

“Can I take your coat?”, he asked before we hopped on our stools.

I pulled at the edges of my sleeves and lied, “Not yet. I'm still too cold.”

He did not pressure me further. Instead, he smiled kindly, accepting my words as complete truth even if deep down I knew he knew the real reason. I could always tell this about him. That he let my lies go unadmonished simply to cater to my ways. It must have been nerve-wracking; having to adjust to my every little whim and quirk. I couldn't decide if I should be grateful or infuriated.

He placed his hands on my shoulders, rubbing some of the unwanted tension away and then let them roam down my arms. I was puzzled for a second but then he began rubbing me again, up and down, and all I could think about was the comforting warmth from the delicious friction. I closed my eyes and wondered how would his skin feel against mine, rubbing in such a heated way.

“Would you like something to drink?”, he whispered in my ear, pulling me away from my cheeky thoughts. What was happening to me tonight? I kept getting distracted by every little thing he did. Must have been that sinful sweater of his, or, the clingy jeans. Or the ass... in those clingy jeans.

“Beer is fine.”

“Any particular type?”.

“Just... something light. I can't really hold my liquor.”

 _Smart move, Arabella. Tell the man you met a week ago that you get easily drunk_ , I chastised myself. No matter. The minute he chuckled against my hair, my nerves became so aroused, my shivers ran so fast down my spine that I forgot about everything. I only faintly heard him shout something to Cynthia.

He left for a bit and came back with a half pint. He set it in front of me and then seated himself on the stool beside me. He placed his chin on his hand and looked at me almost dreamily, a satisfied grin decorating his lips. Did they look healthier and more fuchsia than usual?

“You seem very excited”, I observed, taking a timid sip of beer.

The grin turned into a smile. He nodded, “I am. I'm happy that you came.”

God knows, how much I wanted to avoid it, I thought to myself. And yet seeing his unabashed joy at what, my mere presence made my heart swell. He seemed to value me.

I perched my chin on my hand too and raised my brows, “You're not drinking anything?”.

“Absolutely not. I'm your ride home, remember?”.

I smiled politely, trying to hide the fact that indeed, I had completely forgotten. If he hadn't mentioned it I would have been walking out of the pub completely on my own, making my way back from Fitzrovia to fucking Hampstead... on foot. I frowned in confusion. To be honest, I had come here on foot in the first place. My feet were feeling positively blistered. But there was no chance I would take either the tube or the bus. Too many people. Why not save me some anxiety?

“I'm sure beer won't get you that drunk.”

He shook his head adamantly, “I'm not taking any chances.”

 _Look at him, all adult and responsible as fuck._ And still so excited, fidgety and hyperventilating in the cutest manner. Like a child who's been promised a huge load of candy.

“Are you nervous?”.

“About what?”.

I tilted my head towards... where was the stage? Or at least the spot where the instruments should be set out? The lifted platform, at best, where the band members would be standing? If he noticed my confusion, he decided not to address it.

“The performance.”

“Not at all. This isn't my first time performing.”

I scratched the back of my neck and fixed my gaze on the beer, “I would have been... I would've been terrified.”

“Well, surely, the first time is always the hardest. But with practice...”, he trailed off, his voice dropping to a low grumble, “Anyway, the more you do it the more you get used to it. It becomes second nature. In the end, you might even find yourself enjoying the attention.”

“Do you?”.

“Do I what?”.

I gave him a brief awkward glance, “Enjoy the attention.”

He flashed an exquisitely sinful smile at me, all teeth and spikey whiskers on flick, “Very much.”

Well, I should have expected that answer, really.

I kept looking at my full glass when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him laying his hand on the table, palm up in invitation. With a surprisingly audible sigh of relief, I slid my fingers over his pale skin expecting that he would soon catch my fingers in the gentle gentlemanly way he was notorious for. My breath slightly hitched at my throat when he slid his hand along the rest of my arm, his tremendously long fingers sneaking underneath the huge sleeve of my coat to touch my skin. The little hairs on my forearm stood up in attention as he smoothed out my goosebumps. Perhaps it was the imminent adrenaline or my need to anchor myself to him, to someone who understood me, but I wrapped my own bony fingers around his arm. Words fail me, therefore whatever description I attempt will be falling short but... for this brief, intimate moment, I felt bound to him. Bound, not in the constricting sense of having my reactions, my body, my mind wrapped up in ropes and choked. I... I was free. Completely free yet chained to him.

“This feels nice”, I admitted under my breath. My cheeks began to burn intensely from the mere uttering of the words but I could not deny the facts.

I kept staring at our forearms, twined like this, so I didn't notice him move again until I felt calloused finger pads lifting my chin. Oh...

The low lights in the pub lessened the vividness of his eye colour, transforming it into a deep jean blue, almost like the sea at night, only illuminated by a genuine emotion that touched you. This kindness, this compassion, -yes, maybe that is a better word-, came from deep within his soul, sparkled more fervently with each heartbeat. It flowed, as if it was of tangible form, a river, a streak, a bead of sweat, into his smile wrinkles, moulding itself into roots that decorated his healthy rosy complexion. To me, he didn't look old and weary. He looked as knowledgable, patient and vivacious as the circle of life. Who are you?

He tucked a disoriented curl behind my ear, “Thank you for being here tonight. I know it's not easy, I know. But I promise you it's going to be a good night. Please, do not doubt that you're welcome here, alright? Because you are. Very much so.”

His tone was low and as calm as a summer breeze. It made me blush everywhere and suddenly my coat was too stuffy and irritating.

“And one more thing, if you'll allow me.”

I didn't know why this was my response but I ground my chin against his fingers, like a desperate kitten seeking her master's generous rub.

“This isn't pity. If you believe, even just a tiny bit, that it might be, please push that thought away immediately. I want you here.”

“Why?”.

“Because I find you fascinating. Because there's a brilliant woman behind the little swallow. And because there's a warrior behind the woman. And because there's a sassy girl behind the warrior. And I see them, all of them. I want to get to know them better. I can't help it. I'm arrogant. Give me just a tiny piece of something that intrigues me and I just keep coming back for more. I want...”, his eyes briefly fell to my lips and then raced back to my eyes, blocking my view of anything else, “... I want a taste of everything. So may I?”

I swallowed with difficulty, my feelings a mess. I was about to say something along the lines of 'okay', 'I'd like that', 'we can try... maybe'. But the twisty little feeling in my gut was rather insistent, the fire purging the expanse of my skin leaving burned land behind. The scar along my waist tingled with fury. So my list of potential replies changed into something along the lines of 'if you ever hurt me in any way, there won't be a single rock under which you'll be able to hide', 'if you ever attempt to make me feel less about myself, god help you', 'if you ever raise a hand on me, I'll make sure they never find your body'. The violence in these phrases, the sheer hatred was unreasonable to begin with. The man was flirting with me and not in the salacious, almost pornographic way most men would. He was being honest. He saw layers in my character that I, for one, wasn't sure I had and he wanted to uncover them. If not uncover them, then unwrap me like a luxurious present and keep me to himself. Was there really anything wrong with that? No. Did he sound like me ex-predator-husband, who, at the time, had me completely fooled? Hell, no. But that neither calmed my nerves nor sorted my feelings out. That didn't make me change my mind about all the threats I wanted to spit at his face, even as a precaution. However, I didn't get to say any of it for the time being as his friends whistled at him to come join them for the evening's creative activities.

He raised my hand to his mouth and pressed, pursing his lips the tiniest bit to barely heat and wet my skin, “I see Natasha has just arrived. I believe she and Cynthia will come to drool over you in less than two minutes.”

I shook my head with a weak laugh.

“Enjoy the songs”, he added and got up to greet his colleague with a high five. And just before he left me alone, he turned around one more time.

“Oh, and girl?”, I looked over my shoulder just as a freakishly tall, blond man was handing him a classic guitar, “You're beautiful.”

My eyes went wide and I barely managed to shush him before he snickered to himself and followed his friends.

When I turned my attention back to the table, I jumped a little at the rapid company replacement. Cynthia and a... frankly, hot, redhead were looking at me with their mouths hanging open.

“Hi”, I waved awkwardly, trying to conjure my best 'I'm meeting new people' smile, “I'm... I'm Arabella.”

Since Cynthia already knew, she probably thought it best to skip the introductions and went straight ahead for, “Well, that escalated quickly.”

The redhead shook her head as if trying to attach herself back to reality. She kindly extended her hand towards me, “Hi, sorry. I'm Nat, short for Natasha. What do I call you? Arabella is too long.”

I gave her my hand, a little taken aback by her insinuation but at the same time... damn, Tom was right. I did feel welcome and appreciated, in his company, amongst these girls, in this very pub that buzzed with life.

“Well, hm, you can call me little swallow. That's what he calls me, though it's much longer.”

Nat drew in a deep breath and crossed herself mockingly, “Hell no. If boss ever heard me call you that, he'd have my head on a spike. Nah, you're little swallow only to him. Bells! That's about right. That's what I'll call you.”

As much as I wanted to have a chat about why she could definitely not call me Bells because what kind of a short nickname was that anyway, there was another very interesting detail that caught my attention.

“I'm sorry... did you just say... boss?”.

And that is how I discovered that Thomas Adam Huddleston, adopted son of Alexandra and Joshua, Goldsmiths, Greenwich and Oxford's, Arts and Drama school attendee and graduate, the man with the softest hands and the kindest eyes who had once roamed the streets of Soho with just a rucksack on his teenage shoulders, soon to embrace the thirty-eighth year of his life and to quote him correctly, book lover, dog owner and serial sniffer... owned a business. The top-notch tattoo studio in which I had met him over a week ago. I had seriously thought that he was just an employee there, hired by the actual owner and, I don't know, master artist or something like that. As it turned out, he was the master after all. Suddenly, the name of the studio made total sense. J for Jeremy, N for Natasha and last but definitely not least, T for Thomas.

I bit my lip and looked away from the girls in a futile attempt to hide my blush.

Nat chuckled good-naturedly and took a sip of beer, “Expected anything less?”.

I don't know what force drove me to be so carefree and open with the girls but I hid my red face in my hands, shaking with laughter, “I really shouldn't have.”

“Damn right”, Cynthia and Nat said in unison.

“Tell me, are all his academic accomplishments true? Or did he polish his CV a tiny bit before serving it to me?”.

I didn't know if my slightly sarcastic tone was amusing but the women in front of me chuckled whole-heartedly.

“Oh, I like you”, Nat pointed her finger at me.

“She's a special one. I can tell”, Cynthia added.

“Oh, well, I'm afraid it's all true. Old man has some skill in literature and poetry, theatre too. Got a wall in his house decorated with degrees and honorary letters and recommendations. However, ask him to solve a math problem for you and his brain flashes errors.”

I joined in the laughter. For some reason, gossiping with two of his closest friends behind his back made me feel light-hearted and at the same time, more powerful. I felt perversely happy about it.

I took off my coat and laid it over my lap, casting a suspicious eye around to make sure the big bad wolf wasn't anywhere near me.

“JNT's. I'm guessing you guys have a long history”, I instigated, thirsty to know more about the man who professed his fascination with me so openly. Learning those bits and pieces of his life from his best friends made the whole clandestine affair that much sweeter.

Natasha told me all about it without batting an eyelash. Jeremy and herself were already close friends when Tom came into their lives. He joined Arts School in his late teens and although very discouraged that he wouldn't find any friends due to being a couple of years older than everyone else, Jer and Nat were more than happy to open their arms and befriend him without asking questions.

“I liked him more than Jeremy did at first, but Jer has always had a history of not trusting outsiders easily. That didn't last long though, only two years”, she cackled, side-eyeing Cynthia, “But after that, the two of them were inseparable. At times, I had to literally, physically push my tiny little self between them to get them to pay attention to me!”.

“Jer always wanted to be a tattoo artist so when we all turned eighteen, he dragged us at a tattoo convention in central London. I don't know how, why, when it happened but...”, she snapped her fingers, “... we all, at the same time, as we lay in those leather beds, wincing from the needle pain, fell undeniably in love with it. What can I tell you? After that experience, we vowed we would do something about it. It was like we had all been put under the same spell, linked in an unbreakable bond, you know?”.

I listened to her with my chin perched on my hand, literally balancing my bum at the edge of my stool, eager to absorb every detail of her story, “And how did you all come about the studio?”.

“That was honestly... agh, Tom's resourcefulness. And a little bit of coaxing. And... well...”, she lifted her palms up, “... a little bit of fucking. You see, after we finished our final year, we started shadowing whatever tattoo artist would take us in, trying to learn the trade, the techniques, the styles, everything we could really. We were barely one year in our tutelage when Tom said he had discovered a tattoo studio, on Margaret Street as you can probably guess, owned by some old guy and his daughter who were thinking of withdrawing. Naturally, they were looking to sell the studio. Price was pretty up there though. Old man needed his retirement money, I suppose. Tom used to hang around there a lot, learning tips and tricks from the man himself which he later taught us too. Thing is though... I can't believe I'm sharing this story...”, she flashed a devious smile, looking between me and Cynthia.

“He was also... hanging around the daughter as well?", I made my educated guess.

Both girls started laughing and nodding vigorously. Cynthia was positively breathless. She roamed her hands over her bump, calming herself, “Bastard was infatuated with the daughter. I'm telling you, head over heels. Eventually, he convinced her to put in a good word to her dear old father, which she obviously did. So the old man decided to take all three scoundrels...”, she made a sweeping motion with her finger, “... and teach them how to run the shop.”

“He mentored us pretty intensely”, Natasha added with a nostalgic smile, “Taught us everything he knew about tattooing, clientele, economics, ink trade, the whole bunch. His respect for Tom and what he'd been through... was so immense that when the time came, he stated loud and clear in his will who was going to run the place. Mine and Jer's name are down too but Tom is the boss. He rarely acts like it, seriously. But it's on the paper. He owns it all.”

Part of me was amazed by Nat's narrative. As I sat silently and took the information in, stories and details so freely given, I started ticking things off my checklist of questions. Questions about Tom, his past, his achievements in life and his circle. Resourceful, resilient and determined, with a cunning edge to his intelligence and plenty of good humour, he had devoted his roaring twenties to education, responsible tutelage and professional progress, gifts of life that he had not kept to himself but shared with the best, most trusted individuals in his life. Whatever he set his mind to, he achieved it. Whatever morose, dry flower caressed his hand, instantly bloomed. Whatever task he accepted, he saw through. I had two very honest and incredibly kind-hearted women in front of me who could attest to that.

However, there were still many things I didn't know about him, small lettered paragraphs that by instinct alone, I felt were versatile in the telling of his story. He had only briefly and with great difficulty lifted the dark veil of his past for me to see through. And if my memory from seven days ago didn't fool me, I hadn't been particularly excited by my findings. Orphaned, thrown into foster care, beaten and left to fend for himself in an alley at just the age of fourteen... these things scar a child. I had been through my fair share in life but at least I had enjoyed my childhood.

I wanted to ask more but I advised myself against it. Something told me that even though the girls had been more than fine with sharing the funny aspect of their experiences with the man in question, they would remain tight-lipped about the darker shades that painted his early childhood. I wasn't much bothered by the obstacle since I had already been treated to more knowledge than I had anticipated. It would be fine for the time being.

“I don't know much about him, you know, apart from what he has told me and what you're telling me now. But he is the most remarkable man I have ever met”, I admitted, slightly raising my voice so that I could be heard above the noise.

Both women smiled brightly at me. We clung our glasses and went on with casual conversation, which I had completely forgotten I was decent at. We were at it pretty hard when the strained hiss of a microphone made us wince.

“Apologies for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. We had a bit of a sound issue.”

Tom's voice sounded even smokier and smoother now that he whispered unfairly eloquently into the microphone. If old school erotic movies had narration... He also sounded really close to me, for some terrible, unbearable, unfathomable reason.

I turned my body around on the stool and my eyes went wide as a cow's. Oh, yes. That's why.

I had never seen a performance take place in such an up close and personal, way. There was no lifted platform or secluded area where the naughty musicians would sing and play, no. Their stage was the entire pub. Their stage was us. Jeremy and his drums, looking every bit like a Sons of Anarchy and Metallica crossover, were naturally given the most space. He was situated at the other end of the bar counter. I supposed the large speakers were behind the counter itself so as not to pierce people's eardrums directly. I wasn't an expert but I gathered that perhaps the sound would spread more evenly around the crowded pub that way. My eyes then fell to a tall black man right next to mister metalhead. He was standing behind a posh black synthesizer, tempering with some cords and keys. Tom was perched on a bar stool, much like the one I was sitting on, one foot on the floor. He had his classic guitar balanced on his thighs, hugging it with one large hand while he made adjustments to the microphone with the other. Next to Tom, a rather large brick building of a man, the one who I had seen hand the guitar to Tom earlier, was testing a few notes, his fingers tickling the strings of a bass. He grinned and winked at all the ladies in sight and I daresay, I was no polite exception.

I focused back on Tom and his slender seated figure. The distance between us was ridiculously short and something told me, he had picked this particular table because of it. I will have a seat reserved for you, my ass, I thought mockingly, my lower lip trembling from the need to smile. Well, if he decided to extend his arm and stretch a bit he would be totally able to grab me... in my reserved seat... almost amongst the band members and himself. _Sneaky British piece of... meat._

“Thank you very much for showing up tonight. It's no secret this cause means a lot to us, there's no lying about that. So it's a real pleasure to see so many crowding this place. I think we have a full house, don't we Chad?”.

The black man behind the keys chuckled and nodded, “I think so too. Thank you, everyone.”

Just then Cynthia tapped my shoulder, “That's my man.”

I smiled at her with my whole heart and then directed my gaze back to Tom. Obviously. Like flies and sugar water, I couldn't help myself. My attraction to him was growing stronger, especially, after all I had found out about him and his cunning business plans.

He ran a quick hand over the guitar strings, his eyes glinting with mischevious intent. He scanned through his audience with a wolfish grin on his lips.

“Donations will take place after our little liaison. Until then... enjoy.”

People clapped instantaneously. They cheered and whistled, urging him to start weaving his devious spell, to entrance us all with that voice and those skilled fingers. I couldn't exclude myself. I was admittedly and very evidently brimming with anticipation, fidgeting on my seat like a deranged groupie. It was a miraculous thing to confess, even to myself, but my mood had changed so drastically. I owed it not only to the man on the stool but also to these lovely ladies who had showered me with attention even before I had given them my name.

When he caressed that guitar again, coaxing little moans and groans from it, that smile I was fighting to hold back shone through. The lights went off then and the only source of illumination left was the industrial style bulbs hanging from the ceiling just above the guys' heads. However, it wasn't too dim so everyone was able to recognise friend from stranger. It was a beautiful idea switching the extras off. The absence of light increased intimacy and I saw that people who were not previously touching, now drew closer together.

As soon as his sonorous voice pierced the silence, I decided I could not hold my heavy head up any longer. I crossed my legs and slouched on my seat and very ungracefully, in a manner that only lovesick fools behave, I placed my arm on the table behind me and balanced my head on my palm. I let my eyes roam over his body, confident that no one could see me in this shared darkness. Damn. He looked devilishly beautiful from all angles, even from this strangely tilted one that I had slouched into.

I was caught by surprise each and every time the band switched songs, jumping from upbeat sounds to more mellow ones. Some songs were all about the intensity of the drums, so Jeremy's talented swiftness was dominant and roused much encouragement and cheers, especially from the ladies or other devoted metalheads spread out amongst the gathered. A few danced on the spot as well, shaking their heads to the rhythm. The blond man's bass was roaring one minute and then crying the next. Cynthia's husband was the only one who kept managing to reign in his passion, paying full attention to the discipline of his fingers over the keys. In other songs, where voice, breath and cadence were much more important than the notes, Tom was a true master. Maybe he wouldn't admit it openly, he had after all repeated many times how much of a crappy singer he was, but the control he exercised on his vocal cords was outstanding.

Lyric melted in his mouth and took the shape of love stories, tragic deaths, necessary change, sex and mania, pending revolution. What he sang materialised in front of me. I had no clue as to the reasoning behind his song choices but they were definitely songs he knew how to sing. He was so passionate about it that it made you wonder if whilst singing he shapeshifted into different characters. He had graduated Drama school after all. Anyone who watched him would be a jealous fool to deny it. The veins on his tattooed arms tensed each time he went deep into the melody. His fingers attacked the strings with raw need during the angrier tunes, however, if a song genuinely gave off an angry aura, he adjusted the notes so that it came out as pure melancholy. But my favourite part was his face, half alight with passion, half shadowed by that ginger beard I was starting to fall exclusively in love with. There was something about his expressions, how the tone of his voice transformed his features to cater to the needs of the words. Or to the needs of his heart.

There were times he paused between songs to breathe and let his voice regain its strength. He used these moments of reprieve to ask the audience questions, not really expecting any answers. He taunted us, dared us to be honest with him, reveal our guilty pleasures in music. A guy at the back said that he loved Hank Williams and that this was the first time he was admitting it out loud. Tom all but rejoiced.

“Excellent idea! I'll throw this one in for you. Boys...”, he looked right and left, “... can we do a little bit of ...”, and like the showman that he was, threw his head back with a deep sigh and started playing on his own, “... _I got a feelin' called the blues, oh lord, since my baby said goodbye_...”, the boys got the message loud and clear and fell into rhythm in no time.

Me and the girls broke into uncontrollable laughter at how dramatic he was being. Don't get me wrong, he was great, but the southern accent which he tried to adopt was making this way too real! It was like an elastic band snapped inside me and I hid my face in my hands, squeezing tears out of my eyes. The audience cheered and laughed too, whistling loudly which made him break character and giggle as well.

“Hey, hey, hey, I warn you. Let me finish... God...”, he gasped between chuckles, “... let me finish this one or I'll switch to Britney Spears.”

The crowd disagreed immediately and did everything it could to suppress its laughter.

“That's what I thought too”, he hummed approvingly and winked.

“He's impossible”, Natasha sassed and shouted at him, “Hey, boss, move on to the sappy romantic stuff! I'm feeling in love tonight.”

Tom smiled at her and threw his hands up in surrender but just then Jeremy got up and pointed at her with the sticks, “In love! Sit your ass down, you skunk. Who are you in love with anyway?”.

The crowd owed at the challenge and Natasha, although she blushed like a poppy, darted her tongue out and sang, “You'll never know! Asshole!”.

Everyone erupted once again in laughter but oh... I was a blusher myself. I knew blushing. I had a masters degree at blushing. I would not be fooled that easily.

“Natasha...”, I drawled, looking between her and a now seated grumpy Jeremy, “What aren't you telling us?”.

She looked at me over her thick lashes, blue-green eyes sparkling like sapphires. She pursed her lips stubbornly but I could see how she was biting them from the inside. I raised my brows, my suspicions confirmed. I opened my mouth to speak but she slapped my hand warningly.

“Shhh! Tom's singing again.”

I turned around to see Tom looking past me, “This one's for you, Nat, cause I know that one day... one day you'll get your love. One day, you'll get up and claim what's already yours. Let this be a lesson to you, we men... stubborn gits, the lot of us. Sometimes we need to be dragged by the ear to truly see the treasures in front of us.”

My heart, my spirit, my entire existence melted at the sweetness in his voice and the genuine affection displayed in his smile. It was a clear indication to me that he loved his friends. His family. When his fleeting gaze fell on Jeremy for a moment my suspicions were even more affirmed. Two lovebirds were in this pub and they were hiding from each other for God knows how long.

 _“ Oh, will you never let me be... ”,_ Chad's fingers went immediately to the keys to back up Tom's voice but no other band member interfered with the melody that sprung to life. This was Ella.

_“ Oh, will you never set me free... the ties that bound us, are still around us... there's no escape that I can see... and still those little things remain... that bring me happiness or pain... ”._

I turned back to Natasha whose eyes were stormy with emotion and her luscious red lips, parted in a kind of surprising melancholy. The audience awed and then gasped, as Tom slid off his stool and set the guitar against the wooden counter. He picked up the microphone and came towards us, gathering the chord around his hand. My breath caught at my throat from the gentleness in his voice, the euphoric nostalgia, the affectionate sympathy.

_“ A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces... an airline ticket to romantic places... and still my heart has wings... these foolish things remind me of you... A tinkling piano in the next apartment... Those stumbling words that told you what my heart meant... A fair ground's painted swings... These foolish things remind me of you... ”._

He paused and let the music take the place of words as he went to the lovely redhead. She followed him with her eyes, pressing her lips together to avoid smiling like a fool at his lovely gesture. Cynthia put an arm around her shoulders and rubbed her tenderly. I was cowering on my seat, watching the adorable scene unfold in front of me, my heart beating like a drum within my breast. How do you avoid falling in love with a man who does these things?

Tom placed his elbows on our table and leaned in, close to Natasha's fiery red face. Her skin almost matched her hair colour.

_“You came... you saw... You conquer'd me... When you did that to me... I knew somehow this had to be... The winds of March that make my heart a dancer... A telephone that rings but who's to answer?... Oh, how the ghost of you clings!... These foolish things remind me of you...”._

“Shut up”, she meowed stubbornly, making him chuckle.

“Come on, sing with me. I know this one's your favourite”, he let the microphone hover close to her lips.

“No!”, she huffed in resistance.

“Come on, you little spitfire. Sing. Charm your gentleman.”

“Oh my God...”, she looked away but gave in.

Her voice was croaky at first, reluctant. But after the first few words came out, she gave into the more sensual gruff her voice was capable of and I swear, an odd, heavy silence devoured every noise in the room. People stopped breathing, myself included.

“ _First daffodils and long excited cables... And candle lights on little corner tables... And still, my heart has wings... These foolish things remind me of you... The park at evening when the bell has sounded... The "Ile de France" with all the gulls around it... The beauty that is Spring's... These foolish things remind me of you_.”

Tom smiled proudly, “Can I get an applause for the lady in love?”.

The crowd obeyed within an instant, clapping hands so loudly that I was certain the passers-by, outside the pub, paused to peak through the windows.

That devil of a man straightened again, still smiling down at his flabbergasted friend, who, to everyone's amusement and surprise, gave the most brutal slap against his shoulder. Tom didn't take any chances and gathering his chord again, snickered away like a naughty child.

“Now, where were we?”, he adjusted the microphone on the stand and climbed back on his stool, “Oh, yes. How about some Sex Pistols?”.

The audience screamed its approval. The purring noises he made into the microphone... oh, could he just stop already?

“Mmm, I knew we had some anarchists among us.”

 

 

**. . .**

  


The night had already fallen. I could faintly distinguish through the windows, above the many heads, the familiar wintery pitch black. I wasn't exactly sure when Tom and his friends had started playing but after what seemed like two hours straight, they were still at it, spreading magical warmth and hospitality amongst the people. I finished my little beer, finally fully relaxed.

“Alright, folks. We are approaching the end of the night. But before proceeding to donations, let me...”, and just when I thought my relaxation would last at least a little bit longer, he fixed his eyes on me, catching me off guard like a deer in the headlights, “... let me dedicate this, a song that's very special and very close to my heart, to... well, you guessed it, to a woman, yes. A very special woman, who I hope and pray, will eventually come a little closer to that heart of mine, just as this song has.”

I didn't know how to feel. I didn't know where to look. I didn't know what to do. My blood had gone cold within my veins. My posture corrector felt like a vice around my waist and shoulders, fuck, how I despised that devil of a vest sometimes. I kept staring at him, as he stared back at me. Other types of reactions simply wouldn't dawn on me.

“Jeremy, if you would be so kind...”, he disengaged the mick from the stand and hugged his guitar closer to his chest.

At the request, Jeremy banged his sticks on the drums and the blond man seduced his bass into a low, melancholic growl. The instrument's vibrations combined with Tom's captivating gaze sent chills down my spine. Gone was the beautiful aquamarine that had you swimming in safe seas. Now, his irises were denim, simmering black with sorrow, if you looked closely.

The first few words rolled off his tongue like a sinful whisper and the very second I absorbed them, the very second they resonated with me, a heavy net full of lustful moths, snapped. They jumped everywhere inside me, from my head to my stomach to the jean constricted spot between my crossed legs. The incessant fluttering of their gruesome wings turned my breathing very shallow, however, not laboured. They were so many that I thought I was on the verge of levitation. Had my lips parted, a few would have escaped. And if you asked me three years ago what seduction felt like... this... this is how I'd say it felt.

_“Take yourself apart from me,_

_Down into a flame_

_You're everything one could keep_

_You're worn... with every face_

_Rapping like a scarecrow's wings... you unwind...”_

The guy with the bass kept pulling at the strings with excellent gentleness and each time he released them, the magnifiers behind the bar made it sound like a sensual spank. I wanted to give some attention to him as well since the song was almost fully carried out by his incredible talent but I just couldn't... I bet he was emmersed at the moment as much as Jer and Chad but I just... My eyes wouldn't leave Tom's.

_“I'm thrown to a seamless wave_

_And it's written on a sea of love_

_And it's all I can leave you, babe_

_'Cause the world was never yours...”_

And as he sang to me, I couldn't help but think... This was a message and I had to encrypt it. But his voice dropped in pain now and then and his brow furrowed in consternation. And then, it all changed and he was daring me with those glinting eyes, inviting me to understand something beyond myself and my little modest life. Something bigger than both of us that he, himself, at some point in his own troublesome life had embraced. I had a faint idea but I refused to accept it, which was stupid for I knew that, at the end of the day, he would do it. He would conquer me.

_“Swallow what's still brave in you_

_Like metal in your jaw...”_

_Fuck you, Tom. Body and soul, fuck you_. I wanted to sound angry inside my head. And yet the moths wouldn't let me. They turned everything into a whimper. The voice inside me cursed and bent its knee to him at the same time.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head a little. His lashes looked even longer, as the light above his head cast lengthier shadows upon his cheeks. The veins on his neck stood out. His fingers dug into the wood of his guitar.

_“I'm trying not to wither away_

_And I'm wondering if I'll feel the grace_

_I'm trying to unlove this world_

_But it has no other place...”_

And then he naturally slipped into a state of blissful surrender, like snow rolling down a mountain in complete silence. His tone dropped to a barely audible whisper.

“ _Can you touch?_

_Can you stay?_

_Would you weep... for the day?_

_You knew when your eyes closed..._

_But you knew when your eyes closed..._

_Can you want?_

_Can you stay?_

_Would you reach, around me?”_

His angelic voice pierced me deep and touched my very soul. He hummed to me, calling me to pay attention.

“ _Light another melody_

_And drown into the sound_

_I've buried every living thing_

_Deeper... than the ground._ ”

Blond guy pressed his fingers on the strings and silenced the melody. For a short moment, - I doubt it lasted more than a couple of breaths-, the bearded bastard grinned at me, rubbing his neck soothingly and then turned back to his stunned audience.

“Thank you, everyone.”

When the loud cheers and clapping commenced, I took a deep breath, tucked my hair behind my ears and slowly turned around to the girls, face flushed with something more than playful embarrassment. Something inside my body, something, somewhere, was burning. Needless to say, the girls were grinning at me as well.

“What?”.

“That's new”, Natasha drawled.

I looked at Cynthia for an explanation.

“He never dedicates songs to women. Not so... publicly.”

I glanced at Natasha, “But he... he sang for you.”

“I'm his friend.”

“I'm...”, I paused, not entirely sure if I was about to lie, “... I'm his friend too.”

The redhead brushed her hair back and ran a finger down her neck, pursing her lips at me, “Don't think he sees you that way."

 

 

 

**Tom**

  


Cynthia and Chad looked on the verge of breaking over at the bar. We had expected that lots of people would turn up, of course. After all, this was not the first time me and the boys had done this. It's safe to assume that by now, we had established a certain fame in Fitzrovia. People talked and so word had gotten round effortlessly that C's&W's organised these little musical gatherings. It was ten thirty or so and people kept on coming in, joining us even belatedly. However, what we hadn't really expected was for the donations to go so well. Chad called for me at some point and whispered in my ear that thus far, we had raised more than a thousand pounds.

“You're kidding.”

He clamped a hand over his mouth in sheer excitement, “Nope. Shit, Tommy. Imagine how much we can contribute with all that money.”

I squeezed his shoulder encouragingly, unable to contain my happiness.

“Your girl alright?”.

“She's with...”, I squinted at the crowd and finally located her at the far back, “She's with Nat by the library.”

“Go to her. We're cool here.”

“Are you sure?”.

“Yeah, mate, get outta here.”

“Thanks. Come find us when you're done. We'll raise a toast, alright?”.

With that, I left him and went to find my swallow. When I reached her, I was delighted to hear her laugh, loudly, with heart. Nat had most probably already embarrassed me enough for the night with stories from our past. I was almost certain. But if they made that girl laugh and have fun, true, unrestrained fun, I had no issue enduring the torture.

I kept a respectful distance from them, not wishing to interrupt their bonding time. If anything, seeing her speak more than just niceties with my redhead spitfire made me feel warm inside. Nat had managed to get her to loosen up in a way that I couldn't. Maybe because she was a woman. I couldn't rule out the possibility, no matter how biased. I also didn't want to take it personally. Which, unfortunately, I did. What I would give to have her speak so freely with me, even if her cheeks bloomed so prettily. Even if her voice trembled.

 _Give her time_ , I reminded myself and winked at her from a distance.

 

**. . .**

  


One hour later donations had come to an end. There weren't many people left in the pub. Just a few stragglers here and there, finishing their drinks and getting ready to depart. Cynthia and Chad got up and made their way to us, stretching leisurely.

“Time for that toast, Tommy”, Chad announced.

Upon hearing it, Jer and Chris cheered and joined us.

Nat and Arabella stopped talking and diverted their attention to the newcomers. I watched her cast her eyes down, her mood shifting in a flash. Her shoulders stiffened. She was holding a glass of red wine. Her grip on it tightened. I suddenly remembered her words about being awkward around people. This notion of herself required correction. It wasn't that she wasn't comfortable around them. There were just too many for her to receive all at once. Once we were all gathered, she started stepping back, quietly as a cat, seeking the nearest wall. That was my cue.

“What's the countdown Chad?”.

Her eyes went to me and they were huge and green and so very anxious. I wasted no time. I got up and draped my hand around her shoulders, bringing her closer to my side. I didn't care if the guys found it a bit strange or if they thought it a scramble for assertion. I only cared about how she started breathing normally again. How she seemed to relax against me. She wasn't alone now.

“Two thousand five hundred and sixty-one pounds.”

Everyone rejoiced at the number, for it was indeed a formidable amount of money. School expenses, private tutoring costs, clothing... with that amount of money we would be able to secure a great deal for the kids. London was a cruel place for a homeless child and obviously, the sum was not full of prospects or hopeful promises. But it was better than nothing. It was better than going hungry on the streets.

We raised a toast, clinked glasses and shared a good laugh. After that, I thought it was about time to properly introduce my shy little bird.

“Arabella, you know Cynthia and Nat by now. This is Jer, Chris and Chad. Guys...”, I looked down at the shivering creature in my arms, a smile pulling at my lips, “... Arabella.”

“Nice to see you again, sweetness. That tattoo itchy at all?”, Jer offered.

She cleared her throat, “Nice to see you too. No, it's fine so far.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, little missy”, Chris bowed dramatically, making her giggle, “That's a very pretty name.”

“It's too long. We call her Bells from now on”, Nat interjected.

“Bells it is then.”

“Nice to meet you, Chris”, she squeaked, taking a huge gulp of wine.

“What did you think of the performance? Were we any good?”.

“Oh, you were all great, actually”, she glanced up at me, blushing a little, “Congratulations on the sum too. That's pretty up there.”

“God, we did not even see it coming, you know. We've never been this successful in the past”, Chad cut in, not losing the chance to thank as well as encourage her into the conversation.

Jer and Chris smiled at her little stutters and frequent blushes. They asked about her job. Did she only edit or wrote her own pieces as well? Did it pay well? They kept their voices down and their physical movements limited. They avoided being abrupt or sarcastic and instead told her jokes and made her laugh.

I smirked in triumph. _Excellent. I schooled them well._

When things got heated and everyone agreed to play beer pong, pregnant woman excluded and sentenced to only watch, I excused us and escorted my girl away from their noise and loud chatter.

We sat in the bar, nothing between us except for a wine glass and too many unspoken things.

“You're still not drinking anything?”.

I chuckled and shook my head no, “Water is just fine.”

“You know what I learned tonight?”, she batted her eyelashes at me. I daresay I was a bit surprised. She had never done something so purposefully bold before. I eyed the wine glass, half chastising half smiling to myself.

“Enlighten me.”

“I learned about how you came about the studio.”

I masked my face with a pained expression and bit my lip, “Oh, no. Oh, no, they didn't.”

She laughed at my mock distress, “Was she pretty?”.

“In her own way, yes.”

“Was she... was she your first love?”.

I leaned on my elbow, looking at her sideways, “Yep.”

“Does Natasha sing too?”.

“Nah. Only when I force her.”

“Pitty. She has a marvellous voice.”

“You have a marvellous voice too.”

She blushed and reached for her glass but I swooped it away.

A girlish smile stretched across her lips, “I'm not drunk.”

“Of course not. Just pleasantly dizzy.”

She pulled at her sleeves and tore her gaze from me.

“You're a hopeless romantic and a gentleman, do you know that?”.

“My gravest crime”, I admitted. Her giggles, her smile, the roses on her cheeks. It was all too much.

I gave her my hand and waited. She looked at it and very cautiously, she relented. Her fingertips danced across my palm, making me shudder and fidget. Her innocent take on this simple contact both infuriated and aroused me.

“You're staring at me.”

“I'm sorry. I can't resist.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, “Resist what?”.

I must have looked like some confused child as I shook my head hazily, “Your eyes. Your lips. Your features. Your beauty, it... it surrounds me. I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm hitting on you. I don't mean it like that. I don't want to sound lewd or improper-”.

“You don't”, she cut me off, looking bashful but determined, “You don't sound like that at all.”

Then her brows united in deep thought. She worried her lower lip, colouring it a sinful shade of red.

“Come here.”

She looked at me through her lashes and slid off her stool. Since I was already holding her hand, I drew her closer to me so that she was standing between my knees.

I twined our fingers, rubbing her knuckles with my thumb. This seemingly small affectionate touch brought about a barely audible sigh. She liked the contact.

“What's troubling you?”.

She parted her lips but closed them again. She took a deep breath through her nose and licked them slowly. When she finally spoke, her voice was so painfully wobbly and quiet that I was convinced she did not intend for me to hear her at all.

“Why did you share that song with me?”.

“Ah...”, someone had tried to read between the lines, “Why do you think?”.

She shrugged, head bowed in that sort of deference I despised, “I don't know. I don't know what you meant. You caught me by surprise and I just... It was a really sweet thing to do though. Th- thank you.”

My free hand feasibly twitched from the need to touch her face so I denied myself no longer. I prayed from the bottom of my heart that she wouldn't flinch away from me and hopefully she did not. A few quivering breaths and she allowed me to stroke her cheek. Its smoothness was divine. My finger glided over its surface undisturbed as it would have over an expensive marble. Her shallow breaths, a spray of molten heat, landed on my wrist and made me shudder.

“This world was never yours, darling girl. You tried to fit in, didn't you? You tried to comply and it treated you so badly.”

She blinked up at me, then looked away, “Yes it did.”

“I want to give you a new one.”

“A new world?”.

“Yes. I want you to come willingly into mine. I want you to sample whatever pleasures you can find. I want you to give us a chance.”

“What if I break your heart?”.

“What if you piece it back together?”.

“You're witty. And your optimism is disturbing”, she retorted, biting her lip stubbornly.

“I'm sly. And elusive. Your words, remember?”.

“Either way.”

“Do you accept me?”.

Her lower lip protruded a bit in a pout I could not justify, “On... on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Don't hurt me.”

“Hurt you?”, I echoed back, hearing my voice break. It had all been too perfect tonight, more so than I had expected. But it had only been a numbing balm that soothed both our fears and doubts. Now they had begun to sting like deep cuts once again, reminding us of an unforgettable past.

“Don't hurt me. It sounds absurd but I just... I just have to say it in case... This is serious... for me. I don't want any quick reliefs or games”, she wrapped her arm around her waist, “Please. Show me your world, teach me but... don't hurt me.”

Her words were a stab through the heart but what hurt even more than that was the fact that I couldn't blame her for it. I couldn't blame myself either. My displays of affection, my words, my actions, my singing, my introducing her to people who could very much become new friends, my holding her gently at this very moment, none of it was proof enough that I wouldn't manipulate her somehow. Little swallow had developed the mind of a suspicious snake, a cold reptile brain. And just like I said, the blame wasn't even hers. I was still a stranger. The people she met tonight were still strangers. And the last man that had entered her life had marred her mind, blackened her heart and scarred her body beyond mending. And the worst of all? He was still here. He was a ghostly apparition, guiding her hand and influencing her intellect. He was biting down on her shoulder each time she wanted to relax. He was digging his metaphysical fingers into her scar every time she wanted to tell me something beautiful. By mentioning the psychosomatic and physical aspect of things straight ahead, she was making it clear to me.

She was waiting for me to hurt her somehow. And yet she was hoping as well that I would be an exception to the rule. So I addressed the situation for what it was.

“I'm not playing you. I'm looking for companionship in you. Not a quick fuck.”

Her stormy eyes betrayed nothing as they ran a meticulous scan over my face. She studied me closely but by keeping her expression neutral, she kept me away from studying her as well. She finally nodded.

I leaned closer and to my surprise, she made a tiny step forward to stand right between my legs. I couldn't spare her the victorious smirk. Progress at last. Her lower lip burned like fire as I stroked it with my thumb. It was plump and moisturised with a type of chapstick that I wanted to lick off my finger. Or her lips.

“Will kissing you be hurting you?”.

Her shaky breath hit my jaw in the most tantalising way. She tried to blink away but I did not relent. I yearned for the connection as well as her voice, which even if she denied me, I would demand.

“Look at me, girl.”

Her eyes were so dark, almost black. Her lip quivered under the pressure of my thumb.

“Tell me what you want.”

It seemed like the words sucked all the courage she had been building up right out of her.

“I want... I want you to- to kiss me.”

“Be brave. No stutter.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

“How?”.

She blinked, “Wha- what do you mean?”.

I knew this was difficult for her but I had to know. I had to see the shape, degree and stage of her desire. I needed to know where we stood. It was a presupposition too important to ignore. I needed to make sure she wouldn't break.

“How do you want to be kissed?”.

“S... slowly. Gently.”

Her hand in mine was shaky and sweaty.

“You're trembling. Are you afraid?”.

“A little.”

“Why?”, I hated and at the same time loved her apprehension.

“It's been... a while.”

“Hm, I see”, our noses rubbed against each other and with this new, inimitable proximity, eye contact was lost. We were much more interested in places a few inches lower, “Just the one then. Would you like that? A sweet reminder.”

“Gently.”

“Hm.”

At first, it was a caress. A feathery collision of my empathy and her fear. Then, with some conviction and an innate need to misbehave, I pressed down, to the point where she giggled from my beard tickling her jaw. I don't know why, but I was thinking of flowers. Roses, daffodils, daisies, orchids, chamomile, poppies. Maybe it had something to do with her chapstick. Maybe not.

It lasted all but five infinite seconds but the jolt of energy was real. There was no urgency. No wetness. No wantonness. No open mouths. No panting, no harsh breaths and lustful eyes. No exploration. No exertion. Just a deep relief that resonated with us both.

 

 

**. . .**

  


She was mostly silent as I drove her home. She had her nose stuck to the window, her fingers lazily drumming against her lips. She was either terribly fascinated with the London lights, busy boulevards and club goers dressed in glitters or she was coming to terms with our kiss. _Our kiss_. It was all I could think about as I turned round corners. Its unwithering sensation coiled deep in my guts and that place that separates stomach and belly churned and twisted. Wanting. It was devastatingly uncomfortable to sit still and drive when all I wanted to do was pull to the side and attack her with all that I possessed. All in the service of what? Of making myself feel the same disturbing coils and clutches once I'd pull away from her. It would be like a vicious circle of self-traumatisation. If so, why did I wish to do it so much?

I side-eyed her suspiciously. Maybe that was her plan all along. To make me want to hurt myself. To make me want her over and over and over again. Maybe she was luring me in, like a sirene, only to devour me whole at the end. But unlike any typical sirene, she did not sing me into my demise. She fucked me up with silence and the impassable storms in her eyes. _Quietest and most tormented human being I had ever met._ She would probably remain silent unless I started the conversation.

By now, I was beginning to worry that she had regretted it. And yet, at the same time, I was confident that she hadn't. The way she stroked her lips, this conviction to make herself small and insignificant, even though she knew she was neither to me, did not suggest otherwise. She had liked it. I just had to repeat it to myself to avoid the unnecessary insecurity. She had liked it. The mere memory of how she trembled, the realisation that once it was done, once we had made this small step towards intimacy she had giggled into my mouth, like a girl getting her first kiss. Then she had buried her red face in the crook of my neck to avoid the embarrassment. It was this adorable shyness that made my heart throb. My arms had gone around her on their own accord. Giggles had fallen out of my lips too, my lips which now tasted of flowery chapstick. The recollection of it all gave me hot chills and a stiff spine.

I hadn't lied to her. I was an arrogant man. I wanted more of her. I wanted to stuff myself with her. I wanted her locks up my nostrils, her tongue down my throat and her hands all over me.

“Did the girls play nice tonight?”.

“Aha. They were lovely. I felt really nice”, she mused, “We've actually arranged to meet again.”

“Oh, have you?”.

I gave her a quick glance and watched her nod vigorously, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. Her kissed lips. So plump and rosy and... nothing like the dryness and loneliness of the other times I'd been with her. So sweet... so flowery, that chapstick. It had been a test of will to resist running a stripe with my tongue all over her mouth.

“Of course you have. What's the plan then?”.

“Oh, just girly stuff. We'll go shopping, grab a coffee, chat...”.

“Sounds incredible, darling”.

Another glance. Oh, she looked whistful now as a million reflections of street lights glimmered in her eyes. She bowed her head, tucking a few loose hair strands behind her rosy ears.

“What is it?”.

“It's silly...”.

“Tell me anyway.”

She sighed heavily, “Well I just... I haven't gone out with... you know, girlfriends since... I think last time I went out was in uni. Then marriage occupied my life entirely and I just lost contact with everyone. I... I really want them to like me. I just feel a little... out of my depth.”

“Oh, swallow, they already do. Don't you worry about that. Nat and Cynthia are amongst the coolest women I know. You're interesting, intelligent and charismatic and they adored your company tonight. There's no reason for them not to like you. Besides, they've always felt outnumbered. Four stupid blocks against the two of them. No fair at all. But now... now they have a most valuable asset. You three are gonna be iconic. I know it”, I left one hand on the wheel and gave her the other.

A soon as she touched me, tiny shockwaves surged through me. Their jittering effect made all points of arousal twitch painfully. I tried and failed not to think about it. I raised the bony, pale hand to my mouth and kissed it, savouring its delicate warmth. After all, I was in grave need to distract myself with casual kisses so that my mind wouldn't wander and remember the other one. The one that had made me think of flowers. The one that made me feel young again.

There was silence for a bit as she evaluated my argument, begrudgingly testing it for validity and truth.

“Thank you, Tom”, she sighed.

I shook my head, dismissing her respectful thanks. I kissed her hand once more and then dragged it down to my chest. I kept it there, tightly nestled between my fingers and my heart, until I was parked outside her place.

 

 

 

**Arabella**

  


The yellow light of the street lamp washed over him, outlining his confident stance. His legs were slightly parted, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Under his coat, he shivered a little. His expression was soft and calm and betrayed a smidge of solemnity. The thin line of his mouth twitched. Then his lips separated but closed almost immediately. That made it clear to me.

He needed to say something and it was probably something he felt uncertain about. Something daunting. Maybe even formidable. I could not guess. However, in spite of that little voice in my head that whispered, _your time with him is over now_ , and its companion that cautioned, _get inside, stay safe_ , my own lips began to tremble with the need to ask.

Apparently, the need was so great that, actually, no words left my mouth. Instead, I took a step towards him, convincing myself that it was the punishing breeze that pushed me. I hugged my waist tightly, regretting that I hadn't chosen a heavier coat for the night. Another step. I justified this one by suggesting that when it's cold, the human body tends to magically move towards whatever heat it can find. If my brain cells could roll their eyes, they would have.

No matter. We now stood mere inches apart, sharing what little warmth our bodies produced as well as breaths. A faint scent of wine wafted in the space between us. My little guilty pleasure. On the other hand, he'd stayed away from anything alcoholic, firstly, because he'd been performing. Secondly, because he was my ride home. I could also smell his cologne, intoxicating as it was. The woodsy undertones and orange hints tickled my runny nose. I sniffed as discreetly as possible, masking it behind a sigh but the richness of that scent... It mixed with the sweat of his body, the wool he wore, the inks and chemicals he handled every day. It was as if the smell was springing from his very soul, from his art, his labour.

Not knowing what else to do, I let my eyes wander from his leather boots up the length of his legs, pausing a little at the buttons of his coat before I fixed my gaze on the side of his neck. I couldn't see very well in the dark but I noticed his skin was a bit red from the cold. If I touched it though, I knew it would be hot. I bit my lip to push back a bashful smile. _If_...

The rustle of fabric lured me out of my own head and quickly I noticed that his arms were now open on either side of my shivering body, inviting me to huddle for warmth against that strong, muscled chest. I didn't second guess it. I bowed my head and leaned into him. His arms closed around me gently but I could still feel how they tightened protectively on my shoulders and back. For yet another time, I wondered, how could his touch be feather soft but his embrace so heart-clenchingly secure? And how could I fit so perfectly against the bumps of his lean muscles, into the sinews of his flesh? Like lock and key.

Each hug he gave was an all-encompassing experience, an affectionate token of his gratitude to others. I had watched from my quiet corner tonight as he took his time to embrace each of his friends and wish them well. He had touched them unabashedly, men and women, without fear of improper etiquette. So now that I was treated to one of these special tactile gifts, I felt appreciated, as if I too belonged to this blessed category of people that he graced with divinity. Silently, I thought about how many hearts he had pieced back together with these strong hands. How many people he had soothed with his nearness and abundant love. His mere presence offered guidance. Like a wingless guardian angel trapped in the feral, tattooed body of a human being.

My eyes fluttered shut as he began to sway me slowly, left, then right, as if dancing with a ragdoll. His pleased humming and my sighing comprised our music. At that moment, I realised that something so simple as a heartfelt hug was very much possible for me. I relished in the notion and from that point on, decided to open my mind to many concepts I had thought myself undeserving of. I _could_ go out with people. I _could_ socialise. I _could_ have friends. I _was_ able to offer smiles and kind words. I was... well, I _was_ allowed to be myself, or at least try to, with another man. Someone new. Maybe, someone like the angel in whose arms I was melting...

“Little swallow”, his voice was no more than a whisper carried in the wind that attacked us. Such a harsh winter that it was, “Is this alright with you?”.

I pondered over what to reply for a bit. Surely, the answer was yes. I was more than fine with the way he held me, the way his breath smoothed out the goosebumps up the side of my neck. I was more than okay with the naturality with which we moved against each other, including the entirety of our bodies in that one embrace, not afraid to touch our lower halves as was usual in most casual hugs. But as I said earlier, this was not a typical hug for me and I sensed it wasn't for him either.

I inhaled him again, just to draw some courage, “Aha...”.

_Brilliant, Arabella. Stunning cognitive abilities._

His little giggle tickled my ear and I shivered involuntarily.

“Might I be so bold as to make a further request?”.

I will not lie, this worried me at first but his voice was steady and even, his tone genuinely inquisitive. If I said, _no you may not_ , then he wouldn't say another word.

“Aha...”.

He hummed, “There's a bank holiday coming up in a few days and it's said it'll be sunny enough to go out without freezing to death. On days like these, I take my dog for a long walk through Hampstead Heath. Little guy loves it there. I want you to join us.”

I couldn't fight the full smile that was traitorously edging its way to my lips. A single thought raced through my head, flashing before my eyes like a shockingly too good to be true headline. _He wants to see me again._

“It'll be just the three of us. And sandwiches. Plenty of them. And juice. And dog biscuits. We'll stroll through the forest, we'll play, let the little guy fill his lungs with fresh oxygen. I want you there with me.”

No question. No doubt. Only a well-based, intriguing invitation. And of course... _I want you there with me,_ delivered like a poetic citation, in that jazzy smooth voice. He really knew by now which were my buttons and how to push them correctly.

Before he managed to say anything else to convince me, I drew a little back, careful not to break the beautiful embrace, and showed him the childlike joy I felt at his words. That open-mouthed smile was there and just wouldn't go away. He didn't seem to mind it. A similar one stretched across his jaw, infusing his darkened features with hopefulness.

“I'll bring the juice”, I told him and pirouetted away, leaving him awed on the sidewalk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Quiet Recollection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! How are you? Hampstead Heath date time has officially begun. However, as I mentioned in the previous chapter's notes, I will divide this date into small sections that are easily manageable to write and edit. That last monster I wrote really gave me a headache and I don't wish to go through that again.
> 
> I still haven't devised a new writing plan for the summer, so forgive me about that. I'm trying to decide how much time I can devote to my two fics per week so that I can choose the day of upload wisely. Thank you for your patience concerning this matter. I promise that in July and August the updates won't be this erratic.
> 
> Thank you so much for your support! Enjoy the chapter.
> 
> Next up: walking through the trees, playing with Dotty and making out on a random bench like love birds.

Arabella

 

 

The night's spicy details started coming back to me only when the door to my flat fell shut. Its usual cringy squeak had me jumping and by chance, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked thoroughly dishevelled.

My curls crowned my head like a heath of thorns and weeds. Cheeks and lips were obviously painted in a sheer red colour, custom of my shy nature. The cold had aided as well. I was too hot now, however, so rundown and shocked from the night's excitements that I couldn't move my hands at all, much less undress.

I had met and talked to so many people tonight that digesting that it was actually me doing the talking felt impossible. But it had been me. Or at least a version of myself that I had shoved at the back of some formless mind closet. The fun I had had and the laughs I had shared with Cynthia and Natasha were one of a kind. Our minds seemed to complete one another. Our thoughts were aligned somehow, travelling along identical currents. Their kind hearts made their sarcastic fits even more hilarious and the natural sneakiness in some of their remarks, mostly in relation to a certain gentleman, were just what I needed in order to relax and stop worrying. They had managed to pull me out of my head and effortlessly throw me into a holocene of newness. And while they could have left me to drown on my own until I found my way, they had taken me by the hand and had swum with me without being told to do so. In a matter of seconds, we had exchanged numbers and found each other on social. We had arranged to meet again, just us girls, for some completely unnecessary shopping and coffee. When Tom had heard of it, a few moments ago really, he'd been surprised but also... well, would I be way too optimistic if I said he looked proud of me? He was smiling, wasn't he? Had I imagined that?

Meeting the guys had gone better than I thought although, at first, and as was expected, I cowered a bit. Watching two rough looking men saunter towards me, cheerful and a little bit dizzy from the excessive amount of beer had overwhelmed me. Tom had, apparently, caught whiff of my discomfort and in a flash was by my side, enveloping me in warmth and support. His physical presence had worked wonders on me, which was admittedly a surprise. Usually, I would have felt stuffy inside, cornered like a caged deer amongst the hungry lions. And yet, one of the lions' embrace had been enough to replace the gripping anxiety the other two were giving me. Amazing. I probably needed to share this with Anna, the therapist.

Should I also tell her about the kiss?

I clamped a hand over my mouth, gasping in the empty hall. 

“Oh, my God, he kissed me.”

Why was I only now thinking about this? Why was I reminded now? Had it been such a great shock, to have been kissed so gently, that the aftermath was coming back in latent exclamations of astonishment? I giggled like a little girl as I recalled the burn from his beard. I drummed my fingers over my jaw, scr atching myself just to reanimate the oddly satisfying sensation.  Olivier had always shaved down to the last tiny hair. For a time, I had thought that was how I liked it best. A smooth surface to rub against, easily accessible and soft. But having Tom kiss me tonight... It was something else. My heart had been a pile of old wood and his whiskers the fatal matches. The wood inside me had crackled with the first caress of his lips and then with the addition of his scratchy whiskers, wild flames had sprung up, up towards my mouth, burning the gentle flesh of my chest, my throat, my mouth. The problem was that when he pulled away, I didn't cool down. He kissed me like I was the most fragile thing in his life and then stopped and now my stomach was full of smoke and dust and emptiness. Such full emptiness.

I pressed my fingers to my lips. Greediness was against my nature. Yet I wanted more. Fuck. I should have kissed him one more time before we parted. I should have said something. I should have been bold enough to ask him! Just like he wanted me to do! I should have asked for that gentleness again. I should have crawled and begged.

He kissed me as if he was my first. My first, he obviously wasn't, but still. The way he did it took me back to more innocent and carefree times. To a time when the details of everything didn't much matter. Another thing that had me burning was his respect. I nodded in the mirror. He had respected me enough to ask me how. How I wanted to be kissed. How I wanted to be treated. How I wanted to be touched. The kiss hadn't just been about him and a need he alone had to sate. The kiss was about me too. It was about us. It was our kiss.  _Ours._ The difference between now and whatever past experience I had was tremendous. In my younger and more naive years, the man I had chosen to give myself and my body too, had been on the fence. It hadn't been clear then but it was pretty damn clear now. Olivier had been balancing between his need for positive affirmation, success and financial stability and whatever other feelings he could spare me. And like the fool I was, like the hungry lover, I took everything he gave and asked no questions. Truthfully, I was too young to know what questions I should have been asking. 

Tom, on the other hand, was the epitome of balance. The perfect example of iron control, professional resilience, maddening creativity and a dark lust, which I could sense hiding underneath the magnificent physique and kind eyes. However, he had no separate mentality which he utilized in his relationships with other people. He held himself in check on a daily basis and with an iron grip on his impulses, kept that erotic darkness away from me until he could make sure I was ready to receive it. The same resilience he exercised in his career, he summoned when he had to fight his way through hurricanes of emotions. I was a bright instance for it was that same resilience, creativity and genuine affection that had pulled me out of the darkness that night at the studio. He was a man who had worked with himself and who had known self-growth.

_I'm looking for companionship in you. Not a quick fuck._

Out of all the things he'd done and said tonight, this potent assortment of words had made my tummy throb, my heart shake and my knees tremble like there was an earthquake happening right next to me. Aside from the fact that he sounded like pure sex when he said 'fuck', the message couldn't have been clearer.

Maybe I was affected by the severe tone in which he had said it, or maybe it was my kink with his age that made the statement that much spicier but there was something exceptionally naughty about a man professing such a thing out loud and in your face. It was highly incongruous that I was attributing filth into such a forward and candid declaration but I just couldn't help myself. He wouldn't fuck me just to fuck me and that made me feel important.

This was the kind of thing that had my head spinning. He was a man who knew what he wanted and he was willing to listen and compromise in order to get it. Maybe it was indeed his age. Maybe he had experienced ups and downs, maybe he had gone through enough relationships, flings and flightly friendships to understand exactly what he wanted from a woman, or from a partner in general. He seemed to understand the difference between sexual lust and companionship. Maybe he was seeking a healthy combination, just like I had with my ex. 

To simply fuck me would be preposterous and degrading. He cared about me. Why introduce me to his friends, why take me on a walk with his dog, why feed me, take care of me and listen to my worries, if all he wanted was a warm body for the nights to come? It seemed like such a cruel thing to do and from what I knew of him so far, I couldn't believe he was capable of doing it. I was somebody to him.

The logical deduction was that he wanted me to stay and try. He had asked for a chance and I would give it. I would force myself to try, even though it was the thing I feared the most. The effort, the investment, the dependence, the trust. It would all be his to either use properly or destroy. He would either be a blessing or a downfall. He would either break my shell and set me free or bury me in an unmarked grave and forget me. And yet do you know what the scariest part was?

He had already begun restoring me to who I used to be.

I kept staring at the woman in the mirror. Her teeth were biting down on her lip but a smile forced its way through regardless. She was happy.

 

. . .

 

Monday came and that man still occupied every crook and cranny of my brain.

I kept getting distracted at work, preferring to break the tips of my pencils at the edge of my desk rather than open the laptop and do some actual admin. My second meeting with Brooks was taking place today and I had a strange sort of feeling, call it a hunch, that he would once again leave dissatisfied.

When he finally arrived, we took to the usual meeting room reserved for these kinds of appointments. Just as I had anticipated, his mind hadn't changed.

“Are you a writer yourself?”.

“No, I'm not.”

He pointed at me, a weird grin twisting his lips, “Maybe that's why you don't get it.”

Insults aside, it was becoming really bothersome to sit with him and offer advice. Basically, the entire core of my work had become bothersome. How easier it would have been if I was collaborating with a sane, humble and sophisticated individual. But no. I had to work with that piece of entitled crap, who kept invading my personal space, hissing things at me and insulting my creative abilities. And all the while, I had to pretend that none of it hurt my feelings. I had to pretend that the passive mask behind which I hid wasn't beginning to melt from my need to cry.

I took a deep breath, “The way I see it, we have two options. I can omit to sort the book into a category. It's perfectly legal and a very modern way to go about it. We can let the public decide what your poetry is.”

“No. Definitely not. Unacceptable”, he cut me off, “The people have to know what it is they are reading. They have to have the right information. The right frame.”

Biting my tongue so as not to laugh at the irony of his proposition, I proceeded, “Option number two then. Would you like to bring in a second editor?”.

“Can we do that?”.

“Yes, we can. Perhaps a second consultation will unblock both you and me.”

Thank God, his majesty agreed.

 

. . .

 

 

When I got home, worn out and completely uncaring as to what would happen at the next meeting, there was only one thing I wanted to do.

I got myself into some comfy pyjamas, picked up my phone and huddled under my blanket. I wanted to talk to him. Who? Me. His little swallow who instead of speaking, squeaked.

At the back of my head, there was, of course, this little crippling fear that if I sent that one text, he would know my number and with the addition of that, he would have all the information on me. However, I didn't linger on the thought for too long. Whatever anxiety I harboured was overshadowed by my grave need for his assurance, his words, his sweetness, his control.

I found his number and sent hi, informing him who I was. His reply came instantly. It got me wondering... was I strolling somewhere, around his mind perhaps...

_How are you, girly?_

_I'm okay, how are you?_

_Not too bad, thank you. Just finished at the studio. How was work?_

_Fine. Can I ask you something?_

_Of course._

I hesitated for a bit but decided to push myself.

_Hampstead Heath. Are we still okay?_

_Absolutely. You're bringing the juice, remember?_

I sighed in relief, smiling to myself.

_Yes. What time do I have to be ready?_

_Little guy likes to run in the morning. How does 9:30 sound? Too early?_

_Just fine._

_Great! Is it alright if I add your number to my contacts? If not, that's perfectly fine._

I lifted my head, shaking it in disbelief. Just how perceptive was he exactly?

_No, it's fine. Go ahead. But please, don't write me down as Bells._

_Ehehe, I wouldn't dream of it. Thank you, darling._

_Alright. I should probably wish you goodnight. I'm tired._

_Of course. Are you sure you're okay?_

I licked and bit at my lower lip, moaning on my own.

_Yes. I promise._

_Alright._

_Goodnight then._

I was about to switch off my phone when the screen flashed with another notification. He was probably wishing me good night as well. I unlocked the screen and my eyes fell out of their sockets.

_Wear the chapstick._

I threw the phone on the table like it was burning and pulled my blanket over my red face, squirming, giggling and rubbing my tummy like I was my own stuffed toy. When sleep finally took me, the comforting warmth I sought under my blankets was coming from within me.

Tom

 

 

“Come on, Dotty. There's someone I want you to meet.”

He lept and danced around me as we made our way to her place. His joy was abundant and unconditional, maybe even more so today than any other time. In his previous life, Dot must have been human because today, especially today, he behaved as if he could actually understand me. I have no idea. Perhaps he could feel my frisky aura. Perhaps he could sense that we were about to meet someone very special. Someone that he would definitely like, sociable as he was.

“Come on, boy. Just round the corner.”

He jumped up and pushed his front paws behind my knees, urging me to walk faster and match his own hyperventilating pace.

“Aren't you all excited, you sly dog...”.

He barked at me, probably agreeing. I looked up at the bright blue morning sky and kept walking.

The weather was incredible, just like the previous week's forecast had promised. There was still a skin-piercing chill but other than that there was nothing to validate that we were at the end of a harsh January. The sun was shining, offering a soothing reprieve from the cold every time it hit the face. I couldn't wait to feel the rays through the trees. It was truly a blessing that both I and the little swallow lived so close to the quaintness of the heath, so close that we could make it there on foot.

“Just here, boy.”

I slid my backpack down one shoulder to find my phone.

_Good morning, gorgeous. We're just outside._

In less than five minutes, the door to the building opened. My breath caught at my throat at the sight of her. Her beauty was unique but that wasn't the only reason I found myself needing oxygen. I was seeing her again. _Seeing her_ , in front of me. She was here, right where I wanted her. I was going on a little adventure with her, during which her mere physical presence would be my entire world. No one else would be able to divert my attention. Not work, not essays, not other people. It would be just us and the magnificent trees. Us and the little lakes. Us and the barely there footpaths. Us and the still life around us. Us and my overly excited dog, who kept yapping his tail everywhere, whipping my legs. We would be positively lost and on our way to discovering ourselves and each other.

She approached us with a smile on her face, her eyes darting hopefully between me and my hairy little monster. Hooking her thumbs on the straps of her own backpack, she halted right in front of me.

“Hi.”

Fuck damn. I was so focused on her sparkling eyes and those juicy lips that I didn't see Dotty jumping and pawing at her thigh. My excited child was whimpering, begging me to introduce him.

I opened my mouth to form the words, but girly chuckled, bent down and ran her fingers through the little guy's fur.

“And who is this young gentleman?”, she said, addressing the dog instead of me.

He kept licking at her hand in endless excitement, his own way of a polite hand kiss.

“That's Dot and I can assure you, he's no gentleman.”

 

 


	21. The Woods Are Lovely, Dark And Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys :( I'm not feeling so well today so I thought it'd be nice to post and maybe rouse some conversation down in the comments. Reading nice comments always makes me feel better. My whole brain screams not to post the chapter because I have this feeling that it's not perfectly ready but really... it was a very emotional chapter to write. I'm not in my right mind to keep going over it just in case there's a mistake somewhere in there, so here, take it. I'm sorry if you find anything that doesn't make much sense. The reason why it's an emotional one is that I can relate to some of the issues mentioned. Once you read it, you'll get what I'm saying. Guys, I'm lonely. I live too much inside my own head and I kind of feel like people sense this so they leave me alone. When I say people, my brain instantly corrects it to 'possible love interests' cause that kind of my... main issue right now. I've been thinking the bad thoughts again, about life, relationships, experiences, love and sex and commitment and how... how much I'm missing. I mean, how is it possible that I like nobody? Absolutely nobody. And then when I actually like someone, I get scared and just shy away and lock myself up in my head. And, obviously, other people have neither the time nor interest to drag me out of it and that's completely understandable. I can't explain why I behave like this. Yes, I have had my bad experiences with men but nothing so terrible, so vile and horrible as to make me dislike them so much. I don't know. I can't really find the words to describe how I feel right now. It's just this miserable... monstrous burden that I feel. I'm in my twenties and haven't done anything. Haven't been with anyone. Haven't been approached by anyone. Haven't approached anyone myself. I am strictly against forcing these things, so dating apps are out of the question but it seems like... in this day and age... people can't actually meet people naturally. People don't find someone to love, someone to share life with (even for just a little bit) because... I don't know. I'm so confused. Writing Tom and Arabella's date is making me reconsider many 'truths' about life and relationships. Is it not very magical when you touch another person for the first time? Is there anything compared to it? Fuck sex. I mean get physical with someone. Ruffle their hair, run your hand all over their face, get to know their reactions to things. It's just so beautifully painted in my head. And it feels so... far... away. Close enough to see it and far enough to actually touch it. Maybe I'm just being dramatic and maybe tomorrow I'll wake up and be back to normal but today... today I am lonely and miserable and I just need someone.
> 
> Please, enjoy the chapter, even though I've started with the grim stuff. Next up: eating sandwiches on the soft grass, dozing off under the sun and more conversation.

Arabella

 

 

We took one of the quieter routes to the Heath since it was too serene a morning to ruin it with the hustle and bustle of the main road. We were now strolling through a neighbourhood situated right above my own, on a small hill filled with magnificently tall trees and detached houses of grey stone and dark wood. The pavements and streets were all irregular in size and width matching the bumps and natural dents of the hill underneath. Sunlight washed over the asphaltus, making the previous day's raindrops sparkle like tiny diamonds. Stubborn wildflowers and weeds were sticking out through the tough material on both sides of the bumpy roads, answering the sun's call to nourish themselves in preparation for the next hideous cold. I was magnetized by all of it for never had I seen nature co-existing so perfectly with urban domination. Humans were part of nature but the relationship wasn't always harmonious. However, throughout this little gem of a neighbourhood, the earth's colourful vines and roots climbed all over the walls of the houses, undisturbed, unafraid. Little gardens with all sorts of bushes and flowers decorated the front or back of the buildings, infusing the pale greyness of the stones with tender vivacity. The trees seemed to slightly tilt at the tops, offering shade wherever needed, protecting the habitats from the usual moodiness of the London sky. Nature here was working in people's favour, an observation too thrilling to dismiss. It didn't look like the scary London I was accustomed to.

“Doesn't even look like London, right?”, Tom commented, having read the amazement on my face.

I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and let my gaze drop to Dot, who was marching proudly between us. He must have felt my stare because he turned his head up and blinked at me, waving his fluffy tail faster. His eyes were dark chocolate, like mine, and his soft reddish fur, combed and taken care of to a regal shine. He fitted the quaintness of this environment better than Tom and myself.

“It's so peaceful. The London I know is busy, dirty, scary and filled with people that walk too fast.”

Dot barked in indignation and shook his head.

“He agrees with you”, Tom translated, “He doesn't like it downtown. I tried to take him for a walk by the Thames once and he just dug his paws on the ground and refused to take a step further. He's really sociable. Loves people. Loves children. Other animals too. Just not the ones who walk faster or talk louder than him.”

His assured interpretation of the dog's feelings and opinions put a smile on my face. That man and his dog, made of the same soul pieces...

“Oh, really? That makes two of us then. What about you?”.

“I'm okay with it. I don't actively choose to go there twenty-four-seven but when it's necessary I don't mind it much. Maybe it's because I was born here”, he shrugged and blinded me with a joyous smile, “Something tells me you haven't always lived in our quiet and discreet Hampstead, hm?”.

“You are correct, I haven't. I moved into my reclusive attic only five months ago.”

“Oh, it's an attic. How very romantic.”

I chuckled at the enthusiasm and simultaneously, the irony. I hadn't even decorated the place properly, much less make it look romantic.

“Sure.”

“Where else have you lived in London?”.

I took a deep breath and decided on the spot to take a trip down the particular memory lane, even though my first instinct was to protect the delicate information at all costs. But I reminded myself that if I was giving this man a chance, I had to trust him with things like that. He was trying to get to know me, after all.

“I was kind of all over the place. I used to rent a large apartment near Greenwich Observatory. I shared it with two girls from France. At the time we were students at Goldsmiths so the location was ideal. What wasn't ideal was the constant partying and drinking and... I remember it was always noisy. But I was young, I didn't mind it much. When I went to Roehampton, for my master's, I moved into a flat on my own, however, it was situated right on the main road so every time there was traffic...”, I rolled my eyes, “... My ultimate dream was to live in Camden though. I'm not one for noise, true. But I used to love being around people. Camden was so diverse and welcoming and I just... I loved it. That's where I met Oli-, the ex”, I corrected, “When we got married, I convinced him to move there, to an actual house. And so we did. We lived there for... three years. That... obviously, didn't work out. Things fell apart so now I'm in Hampstead by myself.”

By the time I was done, we had reached one of the many entrances to the forest. Now we were officially cut off from the rest of London, about to make our very first step into semi-civilized wilderness.

I had strolled through the Heath only once and if my memory served me correctly, it had been rushed. Olivier had been a city man through and through so walking in parks hadn't been his favourite idea for a date. Too slow, too much pollen, dogs everywhere, dirt, mud, bugs, too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, annoying birds, flies, butterflies, too relaxed, I could go on for ages...

But Tom...

Dot was jumping all over the place, trying to catch the bees and butterflies. However, Tom halted beside me and for a brief moment, rested his head back on his neck. He observed the bits of blue sky through the dense veils upon veils of green leaves, his eyes darting here and there, captivated by something I was too ignorant to understand. Instead, I stared at his Adam's apple, peaking through his heavy coat and found myself vaguely wondering if I should just keep looking at it, magnetized, or ask him what he was actually seeing.

When a cheerful birdsong reached my ears, he opened his arms and crooked two fingers at me, inviting me to come closer.

“What is it?”, I croaked and stepped into his embrace.

He slid one arm around my waist, pulling me against him. I was almost ashamed of how easily I let him do that but I couldn't, at the same time, complain about it. It felt so heart-warming and soul-fulfilling to be touched like this. My mind was enveloped in a thick fog of elation at being wanted so near to him, rubbing against his body. His hand stayed locked on my waist, moulded into the slight curve. He pointed towards the trees with the other.

“Look up”, he whispered, his tone raspy.

I did and needless to say, my jaw dropped in ultimate surprise. A huge flock of rapturous swallows, high above our heads, danced through the tree leaves. Filling their tiny yet strong lungs with fresh oxygen, they sang their joy to one another, responding to what we could only assume was their own private code. It was a miraculous moment that could have easily been missed, for just then, a harsh wind blew through the trees. They flew along, leaving us to stare at the luminescent rustling of the leaves.

I felt Tom lean closer, “Sorry for the interruption but it was too beautiful not to point out.”

I shook my head, my eyes still glued to the light filtering through trees. When I spoke, I did not recognize the gleefully curious voice as my own.

“But it's January! Aren't they too early?”.

Tom hummed, “Or maybe they are just in time.”

I tilted my head towards him. Something in his eyes told me he wasn't talking exclusively about the birds.

“You... you think so?”, I stuttered, “Can it be that... spring will come sooner?”.

He flexed his fingers on my waist, squeezing gently.

“I feel like it's already here.”

My ears went so hot that I just had to look away. And thank god I did because I noticed Dot had wondered off. That was when it dawned on me that he wasn't wearing a leash. How had I missed that?

“Tom, your-”.

But Tom just shook his head in amusement, “Don't worry. He knows his lord and master. He'll be back in a bit.”

My ears became even redder at the phrasing, “Are you sure?”.

“Yes. It's okay. He'll track us down”, he winked and urged me to start walking deeper into the woods, his hand firm and supportive around me.

And so we paced leisurely along the footpaths, talking and enjoying the nature around us. So far, we hadn't encountered a single soul, which made me feel like we were really, undeniably, utterly alone, the wind our only companion and the crunchy noises of the soles of our shoes on the ground, the only sounds.

“So you have moved around a lot.”

I nodded.

“How are you finding Hampstead so far?”.

“I... I don't really know, to be honest. I can't say I' ve done much exploring. I know I like it here...”, I looked around, pointing at my general vicinity, “...but I haven't discovered much else.”

Tom pouted, “Oh, no. Well, not to worry. Now you've got me and Dotty, -there he is by the way-, and we'll walk you everywhere and show you everything Hampstead has to offer.”

“You don't have to do that”, I bit my lip, thinking the exact opposite. My mind was already finding excuses to see him again, even though this little date of ours hadn't even properly begun. My skin broke out in gooseflesh at the thought of some malevolent wind blowing and taking him away from me.

Dot was indeed racing towards us, his long ears and tail flying everywhere. He had a large stick caught between his teeth, which he very proudly presented to me.

Tom laughed at his gesture, “He wants you to throw it so he can go catch it.”

“Ow, okay”, I bent, got the stick out of Dot's mouth and threw it as far as I could and watched him sprint towards where it had landed, all excited to hunt and claim his prize.

I never had a dog, a pet in general, therefore I was kind of surprised to feel so at peace and happy with every simple thing he did. Walking beside him on the street had been very relaxing and had taken away from the usual loneliness I always felt when going somewhere. Seeing him jump everywhere around me, giving me sticks to throw, licking my hands in thanks, barking in agreement with things I said, were all small experiences I had never thought would make me feel better about myself. Tom was with me too, but he riled me up and set me on fire with his physical presence as well as his words. I was kept on edge. I was hanging from his every word. I had to be careful with my replies, the way I said things, the information I disclosed. But with Dot, I could just be my usual miserable self and he wouldn't even notice. I could very well tell him the world was going to end tomorrow and he would roll on his back for a quick rub. His one goal in life was to bring unconditional love and joy to everyone around him and _that_... that somehow touched me on a whole different scale.

“How old is Dot?”.

“Three.”

“Ow, still young. How long have you had him?”.

He sighed heavily, “Huh, since he was a tiny puppy. Dot was born on the streets. One day I was walking home from work and heard a cry. It didn't sound human. It was more like an animal whimpering. I followed it and it led me behind a dumpster.”

I didn't mean to but I gasped. He chuckled cruelly.

“Ironic, huh? I found a female Spaniel panting and whining. She was giving birth to her young ones. She had a collar on but there was no number on it that I could call. It was so strange, she must have escaped from some house. Poor thing, my heart clutches even now. She was in so much pain.”

“What did you do?”.

“I took off my jacket, slid it under her and the young ones, lifted them all into my arms and ran to the nearest vet. Thankfully, it was still early in the afternoon and I found one open. I stayed with her all night until...”, he looked down, counting the steps we were taking upon the pebbled footpath. He pinched his nose, “She was too weak. She didn't make it.”

I put a hand over my mouth, trying to silence whatever might come out.

He bit down on his lower lip, “Once all the young ones were out, the vets did that thing where they track the serial number on the chip, you know? That's how we found her owners. The data matched, or something. She belonged to a family. They were so devastated when they saw her lying on that metal bed. They came up to me and thanked me for what I did but... You know, after seeing something like this, whatever they tell you doesn't really matter. I felt like I had failed. It was really early in the morning, imagine that, the kids were still in their pyjamas when they arrived. The family was doing paperwork. I guess there are death certificates for dogs too. I was about to leave them be but then...”, a shy smile made its way to his lips, “... there was this little girl, the daughter,- couldn't have been older than five... and she came to me, caught my hand and asked me if these were tattoos on my arms. I sat down with her for a bit and told her I was an artist. She kept turning my arm around as I spoke, particularly interested in the dotwork on the inside. I have roses there, so I told myself, well, she's a little princess. Little princesses love roses. But it didn't feel like that. It felt like she was evaluating me, making sure I was the right man for something. Then she told me to wait and went back to the surgery room to her parents. They followed her out and kept looking towards me, nodding. I literally had no idea but... She came back to me then, a pup nestled in her tiny hands. She held it out to me and said, mum, says we can't keep them all. I was speechless. I looked at her parents but they were nodding and the puppy was just too cute to resist. The little girl insisted. She said take it, it's yours and I just... I couldn't... I had to. Little thing was already sleeping, breathing so quietly. It was tugging at my chest. So I took it, tucked it into the collar of my jacket and asked her name ideas. She looked at the roses on my forearm and said 'Dot'. Just Dot. I thought it made sense since it was gender neutral and I didn't know the little guy's gender yet. And that's it. Three years now.”

He was quite calm during his narration but I was positively on the verge of tears. There had been something so cruel and hurt in the way he laughed when he pointed out the irony of the circumstances. It seemed as if he equalled himself to a stray dog found behind a dumpster. And although he was an expert at presenting it as if it was not a big deal, my heart couldn't help but reach out to him. The reference was just too close to reality, the metaphor to spot on to brush off.

I realised I was sniffing back the mucus up my nose when he bent to kiss the top of my head. He soothed me with his humming, his lips whispering sweet things and apologies against my curls. Before I knew it, my arm had slid around his waist as well and I now held him as tightly as he was holding me. There was a lump throbbing at the base of my throat but I wouldn't let it out.

“I'm sorry, little swallow. I get emotional myself every time I tell people about Dot. Last thing I wanted to do was ruin the mood.”

I shook my head no, “You didn't. It's just... it's just too cruel, how nature works sometimes. And... _I_ was the one that asked, remember?”, I coated the words with a weak laugh to lighten the atmosphere.

He did the same, “Regardless. Sorry for the melancholy.”

“Well... on the bright side, you didn't fail her, you know. Look how happy Dot's around you. You gave him everything his mum would have wanted.”

He smiled at me, “He gave me so much more but... thanks for saying that.”

“You mean...”.

Dot came back with his stick and this time gave it to Tom. He threw it even further than I had and we both laughed as we watched him sprint once again into the wilderness to retrieve it.

“I don't feel so lonely when I'm home with him. I know he can't actually talk to me but he manages to communicate in his own way. We understand each other. Even if he's not human, he is good company.”

Listening to the hints of sorrow under the usual gruff of his voice made me think about his words carefully.

“Do you... do you often feel lonely?”, I asked cautiously, dreading that I was sailing on waters I couldn't navigate.

“Not so much after Dot came into my life.”

“No... I mean... lonely in the sense of...”.

“Ah, you mean relationships”, he exclaimed, making me blush.

“Maybe...”.

“Are you trying to learn about the women in my life without actually asking? Sneaky.”

I giggled and hid my face in the palm of one hand.

“Fine. Since you're so interested.”

“No, no, no. I'm not. It's none of my business”, I tried to object but he only laughed at my feeble attempts.

“Oh, so now you're not interested?”.

I huffed in defeat, “Fine... tell me.”

He didn't waste a second, “I've only had three serious relationships in my life. A few flings but... It's... it's not in my nature, I daresay.”

“No?”.

He shook his head and let it hang heavy. He shrugged, his face an unreadable mask, “It only makes you feel lonelier afterwards. It's temporary. And I don't like temporary things. I'm a tattoo artist, remember? I like permanence”, he looked up and frowned, “That... that's not an argument actually. It makes no sense.”

I had to agree though that it made at least some. And, surprisingly, the fact that he admitted being guilty of a few non-serious stuff, humbled him even further. To my eyes at least. It was far better than him lying and ending up giving me a perfectly polished and squeaky clean image of himself.

“It's okay. Not everyone's the same.”

“Hmm. What about you?”.

“Me?”, a furious shade of red spilt over my cheeks. I could feel it on my neck as well, the burning hotness of the intimate question.

“Yes. Anything sexy before marriage?”.

I wished I could have said yes. I wish I could have said I had been part of secret kissing sessions in front of school lockers. That I had enslaved all the boys at uni with the sway of my hips. That I had done so many freaking one night stands that they had become a habit in my younger years. But I hadn't. And for some reason, I felt ashamed for the lack of experiences.

“No”, I whispered regretfully.

“Not interested?”, he asked curiously.

“I just...”, I paused, thinking my lie through, “I... just didn't like anyone that much. I was always a bit of a loner so I... I guess many who might have been interested just left me alone. It just didn't happen to me.”

“That's okay, darling”, he reassured, appearing very casual about the whole matter.

I should have let it at that but for reasons unknown to me, the next sentence slipped out like an eel.

“I guess I was fated to be the stereotype. You know, like, the traditional wife, learning everything from the husband.”

“There's nothing wrong with that either.”

I licked my lips and raised my brows mockingly. _Depends on the husband._

We soon reached a clearing, which, as Tom informed me, was Dot's favourite spot when it came to running around like a caffeinated beast. We sat on a bench, which looked more like a kiosk, complete with a roof made out of stone and a seating area large enough to accommodate at least ten people. It was a relief to be under the shade for a bit. We had been pacing around for what seemed like an hour and a half. I hadn't had so much exercise in ages. Besides walking around the office in heels, damn, I couldn't brag about doing anything else to maintain my physique. My slothy, bored self would not allow it.

I was wearing that bloody vest of mine so slumping back on the comfortable bench was out of the question. Figures. It was designed to keep my spine upright as if I had swallowed a walking stick. I slid my backpack off and immediately realised that it too was aiding in keeping the bones along my spine in perfect place. Once seated, I tried to at least lean back, but as soon as my strapped down shoulders touched the hard stone, I groaned in discomfort. Apparently, this devil was designed to help correct your spine but when it came down to you feeling comfortable in your own skin, it didn't give a flying fuck.

“What is it? Are you alright?”, Tom turned towards me, his brows furrowed in affectionate concern.

I dismissed him with a wave of my hand before I reached behind my neck to undo the clasp, “Don't worry about it. It's just my vest. It's a little difficult to sit comfortably. It keeps my posture too... don't know how to explain it. It never lets me relax.”

I sighed, trying to blindly temper with the little hook that kept my shoulders secured. But I only managed to frustrate myself. I could usually do it in a heartbeat but with Tom looking at me so compassionately, my palms were sweating.

He reached out and caught my struggling arms in a tender grip. He settled them on my lap and then did a sweeping motion with his finger, urging me to turn around.

“Let me help.”

I wanted to say no. That it was okay and that I could manage but just like magic, all my answers and reactions came out the opposite when with him. I turned my back to him and waited and between the mere seconds it took him to come closer and unclasp it, I was dreading that he would do something seductive. Not necessarily inappropriate, but something that would definitely make my breath catch at my throat in the most agonizing way. Sweep my hair to the side, even though they were short, breathe hotly against my neck so as to make me shiver, whisper something that would embarrass me, any one of these could have brought me into an uncomfortable position. In fact, I was expecting it to happen with such assurance that I was already making my peace with the fact. So when he did lean closer and with the slightest movement, twisted the clasp loose, without even touching my heated skin, it came as a shock and... dare I say, a disappointment?

I drew in a deep breath and rolled my shoulders in relief, secretly wishing that he had, somehow, no matter how lightly, touched me.

“Better now?”.

I turned around and settled on my side, an advantageous position that would enable me to easily look away from him if my shyness overwhelmed me, “Yes. Thank you.”

He nodded in satisfaction and got comfortable, draping an arm over the bench, opening himself to me. With each breath he took, his chest rose and fell so invitingly that I couldn't help but recall its heat and security when I had first nestled myself against it. I could still feel the heavy wool of his sweater twisting in my hand as I cried. The smell of his neck, orange and wood mixed with the saltiness of my own tears had been intoxicating. I wanted to make myself cry again so that he could put those arms around me, glue me to his body and hide me from the rest of the world.

I didn't think twice before I wrapped my arms around myself and started rubbing up and down, trying to fake being cold. The sheer nerve, was that even me doing it? What had happened to my reserved nature? Who was I becoming?

Tom was fighting hard to keep back his smile, it was plain enough. He wasn't buying into it but he was also not going to reach out and grab me like I already belonged to him. He kept silent for what seemed like forever, surely considering how far I would actually go with my little performance. I did, of course, doubt his motives multiple times. Was he keeping his usual respectful distance? The same man who had reached under my sleeves to caress my skin? The same man who had kissed me so sweetly? The same man who had not hesitated a moment to wrap me in his arms and soothe the tempest inside my heart? What was different now?

I glanced at a madly running Dot, who was completely happy with chasing a few baby ducks around the nearby lake. Witnessing his pure excitement at trying to make friends with the ducks warmed my heart so very much that I momentarily forgot my helpless plan of damsel in distress seduction. My arms fell to my lap, where I toyed with the edges of my coat. I stared at the lake, the trees, the grass of the clearing, trying to find the answers I was looking for deep, within their different shades of green. But perhaps the answer was hidden in the blue all along.

I closed my eyes to the gentle breeze that hit my face, appreciating its coolness.

_I will do nothing unless you ask._

And just like that, by closing my eyes and accepting what seemed unacceptable, I got my answer. Perhaps he did want to grab me and pull me onto his chest. Perhaps he wanted to do much more than that. We were both giving this a chance so it would be reasonable to act in a way that would validate, for both of us, if we truly fit with each other. But he would do none of the things he wanted, none of the things he desired unless I said do, loud and clear.

_Your consent can presuppose, shape, dictate and bring into fruition my wants._

He was trying to teach me the dynamics of permission since nobody, my ex-husband specifically, had never bothered. Having a man take whatever he wished and then leave me there, unattended and unsatisfied had become second nature to me. A deviation that had wormed its way into my brain, into my making. It had, regrettably, become the norm.

_And what about my wants?_

_They require my consent._

Tom was trying to help me break this pattern. He was, rather straightforwardly and strictly, mentoring me into a new way of human exchange, of intimacy that required individual acceptance. It shouldn't have been this difficult for me to understand but it was. And he wasn't particularly forgiving. Our kiss came into my mind again to establish said point. He had indeed been almost cruel in his demand that I say it, that I state what I wanted from him, that I be brave in the pursuit of what would set my lungs on fire. How had I done it then? Where had I found the courage to ask a thing so intimate? And why couldn't I do it now, when the request was so much more on the innocent side? On the other hand, was I overthinking this? Perhaps the man just wanted me to throw myself into his arms without so much as a word. That's how most men were, right? Perfectly content when the prey came willingly to the hunter.

I squeezed my eyes tightly, rubbing them in with my fingers. Could someone's lids get puffy from thinking too much?

Just when I thought that there was no salvation and that my lack of courage would damn me to my separate spot on the god damned bench, a freakishly long arm wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me backwards, shoving me against a heavily coated chest. My nose picked up the familiar scent of wood and orange and lovely, slightly sweaty skin. I breathed deeply, my head drooping completely against the cushiony feel of him, relaxed.

“Tom, I-”, but he shushed me gently, twining his fingers with mine while tucking me closer with the arm that was embracing me.

We stayed like this for a while, utterly silent and content. His beard was scratching at my forehead so his own head had probably failed to stay upright and was now balanced on mine. His thumb was playing with mine while the fingers of the other hand brushed over my shoulder in light caresses. As we nestled against each other, creating the warmth that the harsh winter around us refused to give, I wondered if his eyes were blissfully closed, just like mine.

“Arabella...”, he breathed out my name like a prayer.

More than once I had felt like the uttering of it was a secret code, an auditory system of letters, breath and pace that matched an emotion so deeply rooted in his heart as was impossible for me to reach. It was a name given at my at birth but when he said it with his own voice, attributing his own special meaning to it, I felt captured in an endless circle of rebirth.

Some pressure was added around the area of my shoulder but my mind was too foggy to contemplate the details. He was probably rubbing my arm through the wool sleeve of my coat to exorcise the chills. The fake chills, if we are being entirely honest. My hand had become sweaty in his but I had no inclination of removing it. The somewhat erratic rhythm of his heart worked as a lullaby and the general heat his body emitted was the tangible feather bed on which I quietly lay. To whoever might have been watching, I looked peacefully asleep. And frankly, if I was to judge by the limping, slumping response of my body, I was really close to. Now there was only one thing I yearned for, the thought of which made me shiver.

“Someone's lethargic”, the sprouts and tiny hairs on my forehead stood to attention at the sound of his voice. Waves upon waves of satisfaction washed through me at the scratch of his beard against my temple. His hot lips drew random patterns on my skin. I felt them stretch into smiles and grins before they continued tormenting me.

And there was this one thing I ached for him to do...

Past the point of shame at being so relaxed against him, I hummed, “I've never been so calm.”

“Really...”, he ground his chin against my tender skin, giving me that toe-curling whisker burn.

I giggled stupidly. These same moths that seemed to adore the inside of my stomach were back at it again, jumping, leaping, annoyingly fluttering their wings about.

“Really”, I echoed back, trying to mimic his drawling tone.

He disentangled our hands and arranged them so that my smaller one rested weightless on top of his. He brushed his thumb over the palm, teased the skin, bent the fingers on the first knuckle, humming pleasantly.

“You have beautiful hands”, he complimented, although it was more like a random burst of inquisitiveness. I kept my eyes closed and let his voice wash over me.

“Soft skin”, he whispered as he turned my hand around. His close inspection was only fair. I too had spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to get to know him through his hands, “Long fingers. Clean and perfectly polished nails. So delicate. Classy. Feminine”, he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, nuzzling the tip of his nose against it, “Hmm, moisturised. Vanilla. And so very warm.”

The feel of his lips against my bare skin made my voice shake, “What does that say about me?”.

“Hm... you're sweet and gentle in your approach even if most of the time you avoid physical contact. You care about making a good impression. Maybe... I don't know, you mostly type, you don't write with pens and such. Not much into the arts?”, he laughed softly, shaking his head, “I'm terrible at this.”

“I...”, I started saying but I pressed my lips together and thought twice about it.

“What is it?”.

“I like the arts. I appreciate them very much. It just happens I'm... I'm not good at them. I'm just good at one and that's literature. The written word. My head is full of them anyway.”

“And that's incredible, sweetness. You can't begin to imagine how fascinated I am with your ability to read between the lines. It's no small thing worming your way into the most complex texts, finding their core and taking them apart. You're like a secret agent to me. A secret literary agent. Not many people have the patience to do what you do, or the guts or the integrity, never mind the intelligence. You said one thing to me, _one_ , regarding my essay and you completely unblocked me.”

The blush that usually heated up my cheeks was burning like the fires of hell, “Stop it, no. You're- you're too kind. It was nothing.”

He was having none of it. His hand slipped from mine and before I knew it, he was lifting my chin. It was a tad uncomfortable when I met his gaze. The intensity of it was captivating as well as terrifying.

“It's not _nothing_ ”, his eyes scanned my face carefully.

It was a breathless moment of stillness until his lips parted to say words that, whether I liked it or not, I hadn't heard before, “I admire you.”

What was this sensation within my breast? Was this the shuttering of my heart into a million pieces of rotten flesh? Was it breaking this badly so that it could be reformed, restructured, reanimated? Was this the beginning of some divine restoration?

I tried to breathe but I couldn't. Something blocked my airflow. Something heavy and at the same time light. Like a fish out of the water, my first instinct was to move, to writh, to spasm, to draw comfort from any type of action. My hand came up to... just do something, but I did not know what. It was flexing mid-air, my fingers trembling, then squeezing nothingness. I didn't know what to do with it. He noticed and his eyes, no matter how intense, wrinkled in amusement. A low growling laugh reverberated in his chest. As if I wasn't feeling juvenile enough...

I shook my head in utter embarrassment, my hand still hanging in front of his chest, doing nothing, “I'm so sorry, I... I have no idea what- what I'm doing. I feel three years old with you.”

He only chuckled with my reactions, but not as if it was a joke to him. He was genuinely interested, curious and jubilant with my awkwardness. He enjoyed seeing me out of sorts and riled up, mostly because he had made me that way in the first place. And if I was to be honest with myself, I liked it. He made me uncomfortable. He told me things, sweet things, little praises that made my heart swell. I didn't know how to receive them. I didn't know if I should say thank you or return them. I was just fidgeting on the spot, like a hot potato in a pan. He broke my bubble of self-preservation and truly showed me, as he had promised, the world through his eyes. And his world was free, expressive, wild, untamed, uncaring of opinions, straight forward, kind and brutally candid.

He touched my wrist, ready to guide me into whatever path I chose to take.

“I just-. You say things and I-”, I tried to be as honest as he was. I tried to follow his example but broke out into a nervous giggle instead. I tried to adjust his lens around my timid eyes. But it was harder than I thought.

He kept smiling at me and his smile lacked judgement, “You're nervous again.”

I sighed heavily.

“Are you scared too?”.

“No”, I took a deep breath, “Just... I just...”, what was I trying to say anyway?

“Tell me.”

“It's not that simple.”

He shrugged, “Isn't it? Hm. You said it yourself. Your mind is full of words. Let some of them out. Come on. It's only me. Have I said anything to embarrass you so far?”

“No, of course not. I just... I'm frustrating myself.”

“Think about it this way then. If you tell me, it will be out of your chest. Less frustration then.”

“Noooo”, I whined, “It doesn't work like that.”

He chuckled again, warming my insides. He kissed my hand, “You're shying away from me.”

I glanced at him through my lashes trying to not look so guilty.

“Let's try something different, what do you say, hm? Close your eyes and then tell me. Pretend I'm not here. Pretend you're alone, talking to yourself. Can you do that?”.

I nodded and closed my eyes. It didn't much help. Even deprived of one of my senses, he was still here, touching me, arousing me. His breathing was audible, his smell evident, his body... oh his body...

“I don't know what to say, I just...”, my hand did its own thing again, shaking on its own, “... I want to touch you but... I don't... I'm not sure. I just want to touch you...”.

“Then touch me.”

I opened my eyes just in time to see him lift my hand to his face. He held it against his cheek while also leaning into it, seeking my touch instead of feeling weirded out by it. Touching him was new but casual. Freaking scary but comfortable.

It was one of the most contradictory sensations I have ever felt. My palm was scraping against the beard. It was burning. My fingertips trembled over his cheekbone. That place was soothingly smooth. His eyes were kind and encouraging but his cupping hand unyielding. I had never been more confused and more clear minded.

Feeling a little bolder, I brushed my thumb near his lips. His eyes drooped shut, his lashes quivering lightly.

“So warm”, he mused, “So soft. See? It's not so bad.”

I giggled, “No.”

He leaned into me even more, “You talk about my hands but yours are the true comfort.”

“Y-yeah?”.

He hummed in agreement, “Oh, yes. Isn't it better this way? When you give in? When you do what you really want to do? Doesn't it feel nice?”.

I nodded, though he couldn't see me, “You seem to be enjoying it.”

_Did that just come out of my mouth?_

I widened my eyes at him but he laughed again. The creases on either side of his mouth were baby like. He looked like a little kid when he smiled even if he was now a full grown man, complete with his rough beard, sexy cologne and immaculate physique.

“Of course I am”, he murmured, bestowing on me his most devilish grin.

A single half breath later, his eyes were open and glazed with unabashed satisfaction. Gratefully, the childlike creases on his face toned down the haughtiness of that unsettling aquamarine colour, offering a decent break from the intensity of the moment. The arm around my shoulders moved, snaking around me so that his hand could reach and stroke against my cheek.

Instantaneously, I realised that wherever he asked something intimate of me, there was a distinct moment of translucent stillness. As we stared at each other, the diaphanous glass wall that separated us melted down bit by bit, stripping us bare of any chosen facade, leaving us as we were, as natural and real as we could be. A breath holding silence prevailed, damping down even the most insignificant sounds, and then, as soon as we entered the point before bursting, his requests, -those seemingly innocent requests, - reached the ears, immaculately articulated, lacking doubt or apprehension.

“Can I kiss you?”.

All my body's blood rushed upwards to my face and even though I was sitting, I sagged a bit at the knees. Amused, I fleetingly wondered that if I was to change position I would definitely fall on all fours, or even worse, on my face.

I nodded, running my thumb over his scratchy whiskers in encouragement.

“I have to warn you though”, he teased, barely touching my awaiting lips, “I am the one who's a little afraid today.”

The confession made me giggle in equal amounts of disbelief and sarcasm.

“Wh-why?”.

He raised his shoulders and then let them fall, all the while staring at my lips, “It's silly.”

The situation was becoming ironic. Another untoward giggle escaped me as his beard tantalized the smooth surface of my skin. Such a scandalous burn it was.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Promise not to laugh at me?”.

I nodded, shaking with the need to finally have his lips touch mine. He was terribly close and was getting even closer with every word.

“Well...”.

I promised him in a breathless whine.

“I've never kissed a girl on a random bench before.”

No electrifying caress proceded this time, as he sealed his mouth over mine.

The pressure was just enough to arouse my soul into battle. That scratching sensation around my jaw that surely would, in the long run, cause me a rush, excited my body into a second French Revolution, each atom and blood vessel, a protestant, a marching soldier, a man of letters, a devastated painter, a poor poet. They all trudged on the streets shouting for liberty and fighting passionately. And it would have been flawless and perfect. It would have been my second divine kiss by my heavily tattooed, drop-dead gorgeous, rough looking Romeo had I not broken it with snorts and giggles. Did he really have to joke like that just before our shared agony came to its sweet end? Did he really have to?

Affected by my outburst, he joined in the fun and for a brief moment, we laughed into each other's mouths.

“You promised you wouldn't laugh”, he chided, kissing the side of my mouth.

“I'm... I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you-”, he stole another, then gave my nose a smooch, “I'm laughing at your timing.”

“Can you blame me?”, he purred, brushing his lips over my stubbornly pursued ones, “I want to do it right.”

I ran my eyes over his face, counting all the signs of affection I knew were there. My hand on his cheek twitched, some disobedient nerve under the pale skin demanding that I move, that I touch more.

“Never?”.

He closed his eyes, tongue caught between his teeth, “Ah ah.”

“No sneaky dates in the park? No young ladies running behind you? No mischiefs in places that you shouldn't?”.

“Not once”, he confirmed, abandoning my hand to cup my cheek.

“I'm your first then?”, I had no clue why I was delaying the inevitable. The little smooches he placed here and there on my jaw and lips made it clear he was no longer interested in talking or joking.

He sighed, “Very first. And, oh... oh, fucking hell, you make me feel sixteen again.”

With that, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to mine. We both breathed deeply, ravenously, as if we hadn't had the chance to truly do so in a while. Upon exhaling, we released each other and, although I doubted it, we began again, taking our time to explore the outline of each other's heated lips, without being so greedy as to let our tongues peak through. No, these kisses nurtured no passion, betrayed no hunger. They were little challenges, chaste experiences, shy efforts. We were introducing, learning, testing without defiling our still small crackling flame with tongues and teeth and gums and saliva dripping down our jaws. We might have indeed looked like sixteen-year-olds, inexperienced, sloppy and a tad bit unsure. But it was okay.

To this day, Tom and I feel proud in declaring that our love did not erupt like a volcano, did not explode like a bomb, didn't drop from the sky. It was something we developed with time and patience and which required blood, tears and guts to bloom into what it is today. We didn't fall in love. We marched into love with our hearts filled to the brim with equal parts fear and desire. And sacrifice by sacrifice, quivering breath by quivering breath, step by step, we reached our sea of seamless love and went for an infinite swim.

Our kisses didn't deepen, however, I had this itch developing beneath my skin to touch, to savour the feel of him. In a metaphoric sense, to see what he was made of. I gathered my courage and convinced myself that any part of him would suffice. Very cautiously and with the fear of his reaction punching at my gut, I drew back and blurted, “Tom, can I... can I please-.”

“Tell me.”

I wish he hadn't interrupted me because the moment I heard the low gruff, the needy undertone of his voice, I got riled up all over again and my courage withered.

“I... I was just wondering...”, well, we couldn't stay here all day, waiting for me to finally spit the words out.

I bit my lips until I could feel the sting as my hand dropped further down to the hotness of his neck. Being a humongous coward, of course, I let my fingers hover over his coat and silently pleaded him to do the rest of the work. At that moment, his intuition and perceptiveness prevailed for, with true economy of motion, pressed my hand against his slightly freckled skin. He said nothing in way of encouragement, only rubbed my hand and leaned in to kiss me again.

The softness of his lips was one of a kind, exactly what lured me, and any sensible woman for that matter into a sense of security, either false or genuine. His neck was boiling and for a minute I felt guilty for adding to its high temperature with my hand. However, emboldened by the sweetness of his kiss, by the way, he was discreetly trying to devour my chapstick, I slipped my fingers into his hair. I almost moaned at the silkiness of his locks and all of a sudden I wanted nothing more than to bury my face in them and smell and smell and smell them. I paused at the nape of his neck and absentmindedly scratched him, eliciting a deep moan that vibrated against my trembling jaw. He paused his adoring ministrations to look at me, naked curiosity mingled with something like pride dancing in those eyes of his.

When we had both recovered from this further step into the realm of intimacy, matching grins stretched across our faces. Lips sneakily parted, we started leaning towards each other to resume our teenage endeavours.

But, out of the blue, a resounding splash caused us to separate and turn our attention towards the nearby lake.

“Oh my God”, I gasped and then laughed the rest of my surprise off as I watched Dot emerge from the water, shake off the excess and then trot back to us, tongue hanging from his mouth happily.

Tom shook his head in disapproval but could not suppress a candid smile.

“There he blows. Look at him...”, with a sigh he let me go and reached into his backpack to take out a large towel. From his preparedness, I assumed Dot had done this mischief before, “... look at him, flapping his tail all proud and prim, like, 'look, daddy, I got myself all wet and muddy, clean me up'.”

I bit my tongue in startlement and raised a hand to my cheek to cool my temperature. My lips still tingled from our naughty kisses so I bit them hard. A stupid attempt to gain control over my wandering thoughts. As I rubbed my thighs together, rest assured, I wasn't really thinking about the soaking wet dog.

 


End file.
